Oh, how the grasses dance,
tickling the legs of those
who pass by on the trail
that scars its way through
the middle of the field.
Oh, how the swallows swoop,
plummeting from up high
and flapping their wings to rise again
into the azure sky
decorated with cottony clouds.
Oh, how the insects hum,
filling the air with their sounds
that hang, just as thick as the humidity,
and allow all to know of their presence
right there, right here, right now.
Photo by Artur Roman from Pexels
The Yellow Brick Ave 
Beautiful. This poem took me back to my youth in Iowa, walking through hay fields on our farm. Perfect description, including the humidity for sure.
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As a fellow Midwesterner, I’m glad it resonated for you like that!
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