What’s a little gray?
Crops are in. Today there’s hay.
We rock away our worries from a chair and old porch swing.
My view’s a field of drying hay.
And hers, of chicks that sing.
She left a city full of woe where no one gets along.
It seems those birds know more than us when breaking into song.
They chant of peace, the plant we crave to feed each hungry soul.
I pray we harvest a bumper crop before there’s a bigger toll.