The chaff dances in the glare
of morning sun, glints
as translucent husks free
from seeds’ life catch the wind
that sweeps around the corner
across the elevator lot.
The air shimmers with each gust
in time to earth’s breath.
He guides the grain truck
through the dance, stops
to unload golden bushels
gathered into late hours last night.
An old Hank Williams’ song
scratches on the radio, and he
thinks of dances in Perryton,
all the way down in Stamford,
when he was young and his feet
as light as the chaff
dancing in the air.
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