Corn, corn, corn, barn

Corn, corn, corn, beans

Corn, corn, corn, silo

Corn, corn, corn, Exit 43.

And yes, more corn.


Along the way,

Along the fields

Above the wildflowers

On the fence were

Little birds.


Red Wing Blackbirds

You found their name

After asking, after

Seeing them, every day

One, after another.


Like the fields,

Like the fences,

Like the flowers

And the telephone poles

The farms were there,

Always, but

Those you didn't

Really ask about.

Things like those

Strange black dots;

Birds in lines were


More interesting,

Somehow;  even

when passing the

Pretty houses and

Quiet little islands

Always quiet

Hiding away in

The ever-present

Corn, corn, corn.

People lived there

People live there

Always have.

But maybe the houses

And the blackbirds

Are the same. Dots

Framed by the same

Corn, corn, corn

Always corn

Because that's what they like

Because that's how they are

Because this is my home, my land

Because we've always grown corn

Because this is how it's always been


Quite frankly, I'm not sure about this one--especially because I don't know that anyone not from the Midwest would quite understand what it's like driving in the endless fields, And wondering about the farmers you never see, And have seen the silly little red-winged blackbirds Every five yards down a highway, And know that corn will likely be all you ever see on the way.  This, while the defining experience of driving here for me, is likely not as pertinent everywhere else.

Well, that, and I tried some very new structuring and no real rhyming, which I'm not sure that I like at all.  Please tell me what you think about it, as I can't seem to talk myself into or out of liking it...

The End

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