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by Gordon Ommen


The farm pond reflects—

I make my way around its

wordless signaling.


The corn is tasseled—

all it needs is one good rain

to produce a crop.


My farming friend said:

I'm gonna do a rain dance—

his big white belly.


Drizzle on the panes.

Curtains dampened on my sill—

cowboy boots, the mud.


Currencies of light,

these imperfect descriptions—

the farm pond reflects.