The sun begins its slow descent

as autumn's hours meet

the summer sounds.

The heat still makes

its last stand,

as the corn droops

and ripens for the harvest.

While the bugs scream

and buzz throughout the field.

The mosquitoes dive bomb the field,

like screaming byplanes they strafe the field.

The ants march and measure the corn

while awaiting the dark.

The crops are coming of age

row after row, they mature.

One day, the corn is tall,

it stretches high towards the sky

in crackling humidity.

The next day it's gone,

neat litle rows,

A field picked clean and

headed for the silos.

With just a few dried stalks,

remaining to look like indian lancers

in a boy's imagination.