Harvest

Dry raspy voices
Talk around me
In the empty open
I try to understand
Language, just beyond
Human grasp
Standing bunched
Together
On and on
Past the horizon
Alike
Erect
Each the same
Dressed in pale
Brown
Mindlessly giving
Self
So others might
Live
No sense of worth
To keep standing
But the
Dry
Whispers
Go on
In the
Hot
August
Winds


Ken Goree


The summer I worked in Montana harvesting wheat, I could hear the voice of the wheat.  As the wind blew through the fields, bumping and scraping ten thousand acres of individual wheat stalks together, I could hear the voices of the wheat brought together as one hypnotizing mindless, muttering whisper.  It was fascinating.