By Amanda Gorman
The winds are tangled in the wheat.
In many a yellow breezy mass,
The rich wheat ripened far away.
They drive home the cows from the pastures,
Up through the long shady lane,
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields
That are yellow with ripening grain.
Like liquid gold the wheat-field lies,
A marvel of yellow and green,
That ripples and runs, that floats and flies,
With the subtle shadows, the change—the sheen
That plays in the golden hair of a girl.