INDIAN CORN . . . . . . watercolour

 The Last Corn Shock

by Glenn Ward Dresbach   1889-1968

I remember how we stood 

In the field, while far away 

Blue hazes drifted on from hill to hill 

And curled like smoke from many a sunset wood, 

And the loaded wagon creaked while standing still . . . 

I heard my father say, 

" The last corn shock can stay. " 

We had seen a pheasant there 

In the sun; he went inside 

As if he claimed the shock, as if he meant 

To show us, with the field so nearly bare, 

We had no right to take his rustic tent. 

And so we circled wide 

For home, and let him hide. 

The first wild ducks flashed by 

Where the pasture brook could hold 

The sunset at the curve, and drifting floss 

Escaped the wind and clung. The shocks were dry 

And rustled on the wagon. Far across 

The field, against the cold, 

The last shock turned to gold.