Cheerful clouds are drifting south and east above a pleasant land,
The trees still bearing leaves of green, which flicker, rustled by
The wind. Some way out west, the Platte's aglow, a piece of molten
Metal underneath a brilliant autumn sun, while I, the man without
A purpose, turn from all that vexes me, the half-told news
And outright falsehoods, phony experts, solemn, stupid vendors
Of the status quo, to write a poem Wordsworth would call

Pastoral. I've failed. Am I a crummy poet, or have we grown so

Connected that we can't withdraw?