The summer I followed the smell of budding grain

to work and turned the farmer’s rails muddy

brown with paint, splashed them thick until greased

with color—it dried but kept the gloss of rain.

And I would walk the farmer’s hills and stain

the bugs with poison from a jug I carried

on my back until it bounced empty.

And other crops might catch the dust from planes.

In this place senses swim then drown;

stunned by just the water in a cup

or by a sky darkened and deep with zeal.

At dawn I sped a motorcycle down

the blank highway and held the camera up

trying to snap the joy in those green hills.

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