Cotton clouds for miles,
Not a brighter
white in fresh washed linens.
The sky blue
streaks and rolls
Like spilling
paint inside a globe.
The clouds
jump to and fro
Bubbling like water in a pot,
Creating
shapes for imaginations play
Til gentle winds
shoo them away.
Below sits fields of endless wheat
Where summer
sun turns brown to green,
While red bricks
curve winding paths
That lead from
doors across the grass
To front gates' open arms
In a small
American town.
