|Round Bales Waiting To Be Picked Up|
Smells of early morning,
Russian Olive tree aroma infuses,
Peaches forming on the tree,
Leaves spreading full.
Wind lightly rustling leaves,
Sounds as if quaking Aspen,
Heat leaves powdery earth,
Disked soil parched beneath feet.
Round bales waiting to be retrieved,
Sit as obelisks, Stonehenge like,
Perches for meadowlarks,
Offering their song to all who hear.
About the Author: Brian Bucks lives on a small horse ranch in Western Nebraska and is a husband, father, electrical engineer, and poet.