Looking Out
Rolling hills, seemingly endless,
fill my forwards vision.
A large, moss-ridden plateau of rock,
invading my leftmost field of view.
The sun is crested by its height,
blocking light.
The wheat has grown remarkably,
the same altitude as me.
It blows in the wind, casually,
with a lackadaisical breeze.
The wind is always blowing, always moving the leaves and crops.
Even in summer days,
the wind gusts violent as winter gales.
In the distance, lies a water tower,
breaching the light blue skyline.
Further, nearly invisible,
another house akin,
to the very one I am in.
"The same altitude as me" is a great way to describe how tall the wheat has grown. And the use of the word "akin" at the end conjures the same honest, country feel of the house does for me.
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