A small battened church
with no pastor
on a mountain at the bottom of sky,
Graves in a cornfield,
clans of the land
gathered under their names eroding,
Red barns and white houses,
beeves in the fields,
a few farms still milking, as it once was,
Cows on their shadows,
long vistas,
birds passing over,
The seventh generation
holds on if it can,
feel the wind blow, strong as ever.
