See the stalks of wheat
And row upon row of soybeans
All brown and brittle from drought,
There is
No sign of life left to them
As the breeze rustles through the fields;
Yet, miraculously, there is color,
Bright, vibrant color
In every rich hue
Of the morning glorys growing wild
By the thousands,
Across the rows,
Throughout the fields,
Along the lanes,
In the misty early light
Of a cool autumn morning;
They are
Small trumpeting rebels
Standing firm against the worst
Mother Nature can bestow.