Fourteen cranes flying overhead
bring thrills.
Prehistoric calling:
chills.
Broken cornstalks stand askew,
black earth tumbled.
Harvest’s done.
Cranes have flown.
Buff colored grasses
rise through sparkling snow
Sun ignited diamonds glow.
Purple canyons draw me in,
cliffs and drifts,
the Cold Wind’s gifts.
One foot high.
Martha Kaempfe, Spring Green