where does it stop
in pregnant fields
tractors with high beams
gobble up grain in the dark
turning golden ground into
piles of dirt
cereal-mobiles rumble
on gravel roads carved
through ever-swollen hills
fueled by ethanol and
kicking up dirt
rolling stock races
for the eastern seaboard
destined for distant lands
where little bluebirds
play in dirt
november two thousand thirteen
copyright j matthew waters
all rights reserved
jdubqca 
Something about this poem reminds me of “Hills Like White Elephants” by Hemingway. Must be the on-point use of words. 🙂
I haven’t read that story in 32 years until just now – thx. Hemingway certainly had a way with brevity. Thank you once again for visiting and commenting, Millie. I certainly see what you mean ;`)
Unspoken is the irony of the grain gobblers and mobiles using grain produced ethanol to live
so many decision based upon supply and demand regardless of consequences