The gold tint of the hardscrabble
field pulls me down close,
closer,
the gold turns a chapped brown.
I lose the sun to the horizon, swallow.
The sky whitens.

I feel the parched soil
thirsty for more vastness,
the scratch grass lonely
for skin. The blades arch over,

suck and pull from dirt.
I am the grass.
I spot home in the distance.
I cannot leave the field.