Midwest Love

I am a child of the Midwest.

Nothing is more peaceful than the great columns of corn
rising above the black, black earth.
My headlights catch the iridescent orbs of the nightly Illinois predators;
Raccoons and coyote, opossum and fox.

Is there any silence noisier than that of Illinois farmland on a chilly August night?

Ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti-ti....
Reee-reeee-reeee....
Click-click-click-click-click....

Cicadas and crickets compete for attention and as my van speeds homeward
their song flows like jazz,
no beginning or end
only the middle
repeating, repeating.

The aromas on my midnight drive carried me to tears...
the memories...
Oh, the memories!
My entire life has been surrounded by these smells.
Every August for 34 years has been filled with the wood smoke
from last ditch efforts to capture as much of the summer as possible.

Without a doubt, the cool air of the evenings is a slap in the face
after the oppressive heat and humidity of noontime.

They are children of the Midwest.
Every August for eleven
eight
four
years
they fall asleep to the songs of the soy and cornfields.
Every August they sit beside the last-ditch summer bonfires
the lovely smoke flavoring their hair
trying to grasp the remnants of summer
the bits of childhood
before autumn has its chance....