Salt Fields

Yellow-burning haymakers
Stretch to the sea with lazy fingers,
Combine harvesters chugging,
The first day of autumn
Burning the paint on their engines,
Blistering in the success of the gathering,
Making widows of the stalks of corn,
Headless as they are in the threshing.
Below the sea twinkles as in a vault,
Valued as a blue jewel in the harvest,
The bright trumpet that blows dull the same week.
Trapping the chaff in its own nightmare.