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An Iowa Farm in Winter

I inhale the blue sky.
Whispered clouds
That float so still
Silence engulfs all sound
Making each an individual
A break in the gulf.
Crushed corn stalks
Lie in the mud
Like straw mats
Torn and strewn by a forgetful hand.
Feet bare, so cold
The dirt is dust in places, and clings
Drawing patterns on the road
Stirred by passing tires
Crunching in between my toes
The gravel stretches in straight lines.
Distant houses, barns
Break the horizon
That spreads in a giant circle
Like a dome, a bubble.
I look up, flying higher and higher
Breathe the blue sky.