Brooks, Oregon

			wheat growing in between
	rows of sprinklers, turning, endlessly tirelessly turning
		spraying water across the drydust fields
and the Willamette Valley air, held low and hot, shimmering with cars
	swooshing past, leaving the clouds undisturbed while the
		sprinklers turn and sprinklers turn and...
pitter-patter... the rain comes tumbling head-over-heels into the
	reawakened earth, quenched and cool, breezy and free-smelling
		after the storm with rain still falling
			and running into the absorbing
				quick-filling ground
while the sprinklers turn.

** My book of poetry is now available at amazon: **

4 thoughts on “Brooks, Oregon

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