The sky is light gray.
The ground is dark gray.
The trees have no color,
Because there are no trees.
The fields are muted,
in both senses: sound and sight.
The cold’s color would be gray as well,
Though it is colder at night.

Machines run treads into the earth,
Cleaving mounds of mud and grass.
Pressing seeds deep
The farmer hopes to sow.
City dwellers look down their nose
Feigning regality, stuffy mood.
What happens if I tell them,
It’s out here we get our food.

That’s the scene I set;
Drab and uninteresting.
Winter fields as flat
as thoughts of nothing are long.
The pools of shallow water
reflect up, looking like voids.
All you hear is your head,
Because there is no noise.

I lay on my back, at loss and wonder why,
Staring, I look up; underneath an Iowa sky.

The lines of this world are bent

A single drop of water
hits the surface
and ripples

The single drop of water
has become

So are you.

The ripples may
become smaller
toward the banks,
but given enough water,
and no opposition,
they will never stop.

Do not be a force
that repels the
water. Instead,
be a force that
carries it on.

He is a drop of
water. We are the
many waves expanding
in concentric circles. That
is to say, we all come
from the same place.

See the horizon and
ocean meet. Realize that
they are no different from
each other. Dip your hand
into the sky and touch the