A combine's in the valley, gnawing through another soybean field.
The evening sun is warm enough.  A wind blows up the river,
Forcing all the leaves to spin and dance.  A perfect scene; I see it's
So, and, strangely, in my fractured mind, this awful thing which
Shirks the present, placing greater value on what's far away or
Isn't yet, a truly dreadful thought pops up:  I wish that I was here.