Heading west off of K-7 Highway,
I flip the visor down
to try and keep the low sun out of my eyes.
There is very little change of color in the trees
but the fields show the tans and browns of harvest.
These low rolling hills
are filled by miles of soybeans and corn.
Dust from combines in a distant field
billows up and drifts into the evening.
Out past Bendena,
just as I reach the low spot between slopes
and head back uphill,
the sun spills through an opening in the trees
behind a large farmhouse at the top of the rise.
The field toward me steps down toward the ditch
in a series of terraced levels.
At the edge of each step,
the sun catches just the tops of the bean stalks,
turning them chalk white in gleaming light.
The rest of the field is dark as dusk,
alternating bands of rust
with thin strips of bright.
Above all this,
strands of wire strung from post to post
running along the road,
shine like silver
in the last light of the day’s burning host.
Even in the ending of a single day,
this world offers some view of glory
to those who believe in something more
than come what may.