Sketch of stubble fields.
Early morning, cool. Folds of net curtain clouds, gather, ruched, pleated over the sky, perforating in patches revealing a window of blue. Stubbled fields of wheat stand silent . Swifts and swallows no longer swoon for insects. A sharp memory of running through harvested fields as a child in bare feet. Stabbing, bleeding. Why did I have bare feet ? I probably wanted to know what it felt like. That’s all. At the farm, the grain is drying, and the combine waits for its next field. I asked Ali if it had a name. He laughed, said I could name it if I liked. I draw the yard and feel rain coming on. I pack up and follow the hare down the track. It stops every now and then, turning to see if I am still there.