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The farm pond reflects—
I make my way around its
wordless signaling.
The corn is tasseled—
all it needs is one good rain
to produce a crop.
My farming friend said:
I'm gonna do a rain dance—
his big white belly.
Drizzle on the panes.
Curtains dampened on my sill—
cowboy boots, the mud.
Currencies of light,
these imperfect descriptions—
the farm pond reflects.