The primary concern in the Illinois prairie
in the farmland is called the winnowing.
In the rough winnowing when the thresher
pauses, accustomed to the whine of the machine and the hiss
the fountaining grain,
we hear along the margin of the silence
like the echo of a dry gear out of the thinning woods.
The hoodlum crow calling for those nagging ranks for smaller
birds to shake him off.
His harsh jeer floats in the dust and sun and moves
with a spiral of hot air like a stinging cloud
over our sweating hands.
He flaps above the trees uneasy and alone.
The world of wind and sunlight without the winnowing
falls to an unexpected flatness.
Our bodies, weighted without the rhythmic scream and buff
of glorious chaff, recall our swollen lids and dust cracked
hands.
The gold field lies between us and the sun with three more
hours before the light is gone.