West of Omaha the freshly plowed fields
steam in the night like lakes.
The smell of the earth floods over the roads.
The field mice are moving their nests
to the higher grounds of fence rows,
the old among them crying out
to the owls to take them all.
The paths in the grass are loud with the
squeak of their carts.
They keep their lanterns covered.
Enjoying the poetry of Ted Kooser.....Dee Dee