The corn comes down, and it's time to pick up what the machines have left in a New England field. (A little extra something for my bunnies.)

I am as old as Death,
as young as Time,
as poor as
the landless are
in any place.

I go on foot
to glean in a field
that has only known
the bloodless wheel.

In a threadbare coat,
gray wisps of hair,
I stoop,
stripping golden pouches
from the bodies of
those lately fallen
nobles of the field.

The crows all hide,
and the wind is
the first finger
of winter.