The grist is plentiful, 
nearly loping into the stores. 
It almost hovers  
over the moat to market. 
I pause in that lower flood
scowling into my spray-gun.
Against the dusk, 
our family’s crest,
a plain of wheat
bent in my younger fist,
shines from the side
of our silo.  
I am unfeasible now 
in my protective suit 
and mask.  Tapes
of my flushed speech 
spool away from me 
into the auburn, 
distancing fields.
My sons have all gone
blaring into the opulent
teatimes of the Northeast.
They call me
a sample-section
of a dying population,
clarified butter for a face.  
In a shed, I hear 
the thinning crows
stringing together 
a final crown 
of rebar for my head.