Field Day

Bleeding on my typecast,
it’s a field day!

How like disconsolate
scarecrows we sway,

so frail to be moved
by even the faintest breeze.

Whoops, gotta sneeze.
Too many histamines

at the harvest. A kind of peace
settles on the ritual grounds,

bone dry, and the gruel-thin clouds
go by like adolescence.

Gasping, my patience wears thin
gauze across its mouth

in anticipation of the coming
six years of drought.

-r. miller

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