There is purity in nature still: though
I saw Tractor flouting rust mustaches
on a dewy lea this morning, behind
some sundry sunrise. And wheat, forgetting
how to wild: strict necked, it sprouts in rows
like school children uniformed and same. And
rain that falls unsure of self, delinquent
and dry. My, my morning.

But there are trees still, yes trees that root where
no one’s buried, scaffold oaks that soak the dawning
orange for lack of rain, and dried-up beds of
riverbanks that wind in scars of clay—

There was a single crow on the pipe of that
rigor mortis Deere my morning last; and yes,
yes I think there is purity in nature just the same.