Fields emptied
Silos filled
Soon the loaves
From flour milled
Silos filled
Soon the loaves
From flour milled
And I wonder
That I have never stood
In a field of grain
Ripened
Ready for harvest
This golden crop
The wealth which builds cities
Known to urbanites like me
Only as bread
Or an image on a cereal box
Thunder rolls
Across the parchment plains
Rain is coming
Too late
And far too much
What little soil remains
After wind storms
And dust clouds
Carried the best of it
Off to the East
Will wash away
Rivulets cutting small canyons
Deep into the earth