WEBVTT

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The primary concern in
the Illinois prairie

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in the farmland is
called the winnowing.

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In the rough winnowing
when the thresher

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pauses, accustomed to the whine
of the machine and the hiss

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the fountaining grain,

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we hear along the
margin of the silence

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like the echo of a dry gear
out of the thinning woods.

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The hoodlum crow calling for
those nagging ranks for smaller

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birds to shake him off.

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His harsh jeer floats in
the dust and sun and moves

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with a spiral of hot air
like a stinging cloud

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over our sweating hands.

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He flaps above the
trees uneasy and alone.

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The world of wind and
sunlight without the winnowing

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falls to an unexpected flatness.

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Our bodies, weighted without
the rhythmic scream and buff

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of glorious chaff, recall our
swollen lids and dust cracked

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hands.

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The gold field lies between
us and the sun with three more

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hours before the light is gone.

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