All stained with the
bloody light of sunset,
The crimson stalks shake
and snap in the wind.
The bare field before
them glows like a lake of fire
And on its shore the dead
corn dances.
Its rasping voice calls
to the ruddy moon
That bulges above the
forest cloaked hills,
A sentinel of the
endless, black ocean of night.
And as the stars cascade
and swirl across the sky,
The stalks wither in
shadows
Until they are black and crisp in the night wind.
by D. L. Myers
Until they are black and crisp in the night wind.
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