On a misty morning like this,
With the low hills of northeast Kansas
Caressed by fog and covered with dew,
And the fresh new of a September morning
Muted by such clouds as this,

It is hard not to miss the soft smell
Of hardwood fires smoldering in old barns
Beneath heavy tiers of dark-fired tobacco,
Gray smoke pressed close to earth
Slowly drifting beneath tall hickories,

Across thick fescue
And sifting through the fences
That line the banks and ditches
Following the low slopes and hard cut curves
Of narrow backroads in West Kentucky.


H. Arnett
9/6/22