Sunsets and hay wagons,
old barns, animals in shadows,
and a few country people,
wizened in faded cotton, quieted
by open sky and uncluttered horizons,
some filled still with flame and smoke,
grown old fighting the fire,
each leading his little epic life,
pausing to watch the sun go down
behind corn in tassel on the hill,
the sky the greater part,
then a little dab of earth,
the measure of a day
holding time together.
