when barley fields are grizzly with green

the sun runs in patches, and clouds
heap higher and higher, bleaching
as they reach something closer to heaven.

the redstart chirps, as his fledgling offspring
try out the air and swish their tails,
crimson on grey, mouths wide open.

and the wind goes in waves,
and again, luring the spikelets aside, to reveal
the lush green unripeness, golden

in expectation of many future beers,
and daring, and songs
slowly passing into oblivion

as all things must.

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