Mists hang over these fields. Startled scourge of blackbirds, hovers a moment before the horde assures itself, resettles. Water vapors drape scrims on grasses sagging here, there above a thermal line, waiting for sun’s rays to scrape them aside for now. They translate all our secrets to the soil; coax life to punch through wet dirt. Ignorant of our tears and laughter, this heavy clay Earth will bake in sun between the rows, among young fruit. And our small man’s news will not shatter her.
(Image Description: A color photograph of a pale slate-blue sky filled with a murmuration, the dozens and dozens of frenzied starlings, grackles, and blackbirds in flight seeming to work together as one giant body at times and other times seeming to be in complete chaos. The image is, of course, a moment in time of one of these huge sky gatherings. The wings of the birds are blurred as they beat the air frantically but even in their hurried travel the watcher can detect patterns, birds flying in parallel or diagonal formations, as if they intend asemic skywriting.)