I am not made for these modern times

Missouri mud runs through my veins
unspoiled country air flows through my lungs.
my roots are intertwined in the bedrock of culture,
traditions and folklore of a pioneer Midwest

My heart beats with the rhythm
of wind through oak trees
the sway of golden wheat
the steady fall of summer rain
on metal porch roofs

My voice is the sound
of pickup trucks on gravel roads
tractors plowing through gumbo
the hoot of owls from leaning red barns.
the yip of foxes or the howl of coyotes from
across green pastures under full moon’s glow
trumpeting of a rooster greeting the day
songs of blue jays, cardinals, red wing blackbirds
caw of crows pecking through early snow
on harvested corn fields
beat of horse hooves
lazy bawling of cows

My nostril are filled with the smell of
wildflower meadows, fresh baled hay
alfalfa, soybeans, and apple blossoms

I am lightning bugs on summer’s eve
coon hounds asleep on sunlit porches
family picnics on red checkered tablecloths
horseshoes, freeze tag and kick the can

I am unlocked doors and open windows
rocking chairs and back porch swings
I am outdated