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Wheatfield Silos:The Horse Heaven Hills

After miles of buff slopes

near harvest, the giant shapes

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against the horizon are markers

in memory:

The harvest poured twice -

to the storage silos and out again,

all that spring green to all this gold.

Smell of dusk and straw.

Tinge of yeast and a dusty thirst

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not quenched in the pouring.

They wait like mammoth mosques

cast against gold dust above hills

where russet mare's tails cross a sun swollen

in summer abundance.