Dear Reader, I wrote a poem for you. The name of the poem is:
Silver rays of early sunshine reflecting off fully ripe golden corn.
Slight, light fog lying over unkempt creek beds.
Pale blue sky, on the horizon almost white blue, and not a single cloud.
With the clearest, crispest air, one can see for miles over the rolling fields.
Orange maples and circular grain bins mark homesteads
With barbed wire fence lines as relics of roaming livestock:
A silent symphony played on God’s rich earth
Celebrating Iowa’s abundant harvest.