Just a rock placed on a wind-swept post,
Somewhat odd and out of place.
Before it sat on a prairie fence,
It rested from its’ seismic race.
Always watched by sun and sky,
Guarded by sharp thistles and thorns.
Lonely now and all alone,
Lifted high in a awkward pose.
A little piece of a farmer’s thought,
This summer’s whimsy, fantasy art.