Watching Fields Pass by on the Drive Back to St. Louis After a Dusting Snow

A cold kingdom is called up to the sky;
white spires raise toward muted sun
as quickly as they are razed by prairie whim.
Lands once free from the thoughts of man
are free to be cold and still again,
without judgment.

A dark cloak streams across my window;
a glowing semi pours ash into the field below.

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