Standing on the Clutch

Broken
Stunted stalks
From autumn’s harvest
Jut a thin snow layer
Giving fields an
Up-close appearance of shaving cream
Covering a
Partial stubble
Of beard.

Winds shear the land
Brutal
In its stewardship
Of sleeping earth.

A congress of crows
Stand at ease
Along utility wires
Surveying the leftovers
Determining
Where to begin.

I stand on the clutch
At the crossing
Impatiently enduring
Creeping coal cars
Clattering their northward travel
Into Sandburg’s
Hog Butcher for the World
Where the only
Slaughter house remaining
Is laden with suits
Briefcases
And cell phones.

All in all
I prefer the
Fields
Crows and
Clutch.