Approaching the flat horizon,
vast fields surround us.
The rich, malleable land,
exposed by the till.
A smokey cloud plumes,
over the hazy view,
while the April wind howls,
and the land lifts skyward.
Up, up, and away,
goes our sweet Iowa topsoil.
There goes our independence,
and our future’s fortune too.
Rosie Russell, April 6, 2024
