In a windbreak between two corn fields,
a half mile from any house, it leans
against the tangle of a blowdown,
its geometry unmistakable.
Its reflectors shine like eyes in your headlights,
and the next morning finds it still upright,
as constant and as patient as a dog
ready for the next leg of some journey.
After three days, you wish that somebody
would just steal the thing, throw it in their truck
to give an end to this story, the suspense
being far more than a farm lane might manage.
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