The sky's the color of my old blue jeans, and the land is pulled tight by drought. All the fields are perfectly smooth, planed and drawn and quartered by old farmers and good ol' boys in their diesel-smoking tractors, and everything is boxed off into barbed-wire squares.
(This poem originally published in Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet, Issue #7, October 2000. Portions also appeared in In Silent Graves by Gary A. Braunbeck.)
