The black cur

Was hunting the new turned fields

Strips of rich earth

Between the standing rows of corn

When he flushed the morning doves

Flying hard across the hedgerow

Where blazed all the colors of the fall.

It was a scene worthy of Bruegel

Had the old master ever known

The colors of a new world.

Yet I marveled more at the farmer’s faith

For he was planting winter rye.

And I knew that before the doves’ return

And the golden grain

There would be the bulldozers

Like monstrous city pigeons

Whose success is unrivalled

Even as they die.

The houses would rise from earth entombed.