Driving along a quiet John Philip Falter main street
Through the lower intestine of the American stomach
Tree lined side streets fenceless yards clapboard houses
In the cemetary widows leave flowers for beloved spouses
Section after section of freshly tilled soil
Awaiting the seeding of wheat, the sowing of corn
The rows perfectly divided 30 inches apart
Just enough room for a man pushing a single-wheeled cart
Windmills creaking in the faint breeze
Ten crows rise up and race to the eastern horizon
A dog chases the flying shadows through the field below
Curlicue clouds above would have tempted Van Gogh
Storm-damaged billboard advertises fresh veg bles ahead
Fly on past the shuttered up stands
Roll down the windows to feel the warm country air
Drivers seat as comfortable as an easy chair
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