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You might stop to watch a tractorTilling flattened fields from end to endTurning back on itself again and againIts gears grinding a melancholic drone of autumnAs churning plow blades buckle half-baked soilTrailed by swirling dust and raucous blackbirdsFighting over swollen melons left to rotPreying on worms and squirming bugs.The furrows of fallow mindsAre likely filled with old grievances left behind