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These fields know no idle hours
they are kept by wind and by the sudden
storms that strip illusion back,
which open up creeks among a few stones
and send the startled cows to cover.
These fields cannot, of course, relax.
Through them, all night, all day,
the small things scurry and the bony
things, the feathered and furry things.
Ants make up a multitude of desires,
at night from out of deep cover the
fireflies put on their airy shows,
their red shoes and hard bright shells.
Though from a distance these gray fields
are nearly black, up close you sense
infinity come around, swirls of activity,
and hot upon your cheek the day’s long sun,
restored for the princely sum your presence
offers. Do not go back — these fields
would miss the order of your wandering,
these fields lean close to hear your
special breathing. Down by the brook
where these fields end, another climate
startles from beneath clear glass.
Step in, step on, the water and the
stones recite. Perhaps you are the
first one ever to see the crawfish
dart among the pebbles for his food.
By Greg Kuzma