behind the fallen boards,
the field
is bare. flat acres of brown
and scrub brush
stretch
until it stretches no more
at the edge
of the road where I've stopped,
getting out of my car to stare
at the empty
field.
far off to the right is a house.
a small silver silo.
no lights are on.
no tail of smoke from the chimney.
a rusted plow
sits near a dying oak.
I let the sun
come down, blue and cool
against the earth,
upon me and my shoulders,
then I get back into the car
and drive on.
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