Hawk on the power line, 
vulture on an updraft, 
a single deer skirting the rows 
in an aging field of cornstalks, 
all the ears harvested and
gone to the silos,
the regiments of biomass 
withered now and brown, 
and waiting for the plow, 
it’s the only time of year I like a cornfield, 
the illusion of tall green uniforms 
giving way to the senescence 
of a thousand thousand individuals, 
disarmed soldiers just this side
of compost, the vulture
watching the hawk, the hawk 
watching the field mouse, 
October sun falling, yellow moon 
fat above the trees.