Was of a few pale and
Broken corn stalks
Stranded in old snow
The wind was blowing
Their tattered leaves so
It looked like a cross
Between an Indian
Burial ground from
The movies of my youth
And Van Gogh’s Crows
In a Cornfield with all
His terrifying colors
Washed down to dirty
Whites and hazy browns
Not unlike the sepia of the very
First photographs ever taken
The colors of the blind end
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