I was reminded why I am a midwesterner yesterday
while on a country road
whizzing past the newly-sprung-up pumpkin stands.

The grass is a new shade of green,
having been reassigned its emerald state
by early autumn rain,
its brilliance more sharp than even
one might expect in June,
every blade subject to the whimsy of nature.

The trees, however, answer to an ancient
rhythm no forecaster can explain. Orange and gold and rust and brown come naturally, predictably,
and no whimsy can stop them.

And the roadside sumac grins a crimson more ingenious
that anything I can find in even the 64-pack.