Kernels

Faded brown, wind-borne helix

of corn leaves snake across 

asphalt ahead of your hike for fresh

air in the waning daylight. Now 

that cloud of chaff down the road,

the grinding mastication of a harvester

makes sense. Two dump-trucks

wait on the half-stubbled acres

to be engorged. You’ll take twice

as long because they’ve spilled out

too much corn on the shoulder that

mustn’t be wasted; a Hansel and Gretel  

trail to a nearby grain elevator.

*

Can you pinch the golden seeds up,

stooping every few yards? Gloves

off, the grains are still slippery in

the cold. Nervous vehicles move

away, across the center stripe as you

flick bits of dirt off, push the kernels

into your hoody pouch, a fistful 

in there already. You have in mind

to scatter them for grackles, starlings

flocking in your back yard 

that shouldn’t eat any more 

stale, glazed donuts before

their exodus.