Harvest

Corn cube, stalks pressed tight as matchsticks,
no room to wave. Combines idle rimwards.
She surveys the field about to be harvested.
Hers is a red tractor, her pink tee-shirt glows.
Through congestion, trailers barge their golden horde.
Stacks of bails teeter on the brink of stubble.
The red-faced loon lies ready for the plough..