The eye at fresh cut rye, under indigo sky;

field beyond mossy, marshy moor.

As I set my soles I leave a stamp,

into ground grazed by gullying combine.

Leaving long lined marks upon this land,

scavenged, scraped, and striped its yield.

Now barren, bald and bould;

of stories old, shadowy from deeper sources.

Brushed and breached, busted on the linen,

filigrain fluorescent fine the depth;

and I supervise in sentry of sentinel,

on life’s losses and lucre.