The Burn
Stalks crackle,
cars thread the slow-burn.
Straw, insect legs and fumes
get into the lungs of trucks,
make them talk backwards
like the devil on Sundays.
Bygone and by-passed farmers
leave their tractors,
run across the highway
into abandoned barns.
Eventually the fire eats itself -
hay wisps
float away into forgetfulness.
No one burns corn stubble now,
but the smoke can be seen
moving beneath the sunbaked sod
where ghosts still sullenly
fork-over long-blackened reeks.
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