The only clouds
forming are crow clouds，
the only shade， oaks
bound together in a tangle of oak
limbs that signal the wind
coming， if there is any wind
stroking the flat
fields， the flat
swatch of corn.
Far as anyone's eye can see， corn's
dying under the sky
that repeats itself either as sky
or as water
that won't remain water
for long on the highway： its shimmer
is merely the shimmer
of one more illusion that yields
to our crossing as we ourselves yield
to our lives， to the roots
of our landscape. Pull up the roots
and what do we see but the night
soil of dream， the night
soil of what we call
home. Home that calls
and calls
and calls.