THE HAY OF THE FIELDS AND THE BERRIES OF THE FOREST

The sky was overcast and so the sun hidden. But still, out in the forests, covered by blankets of clouds and the tree tops with their summer leaves, the berries seemed bright, so full they were. There wild red berries and also raspberries,- and just when you thought they were done with, a flurry of more would announce themselves just around a bend or corner. There was a nice mixture of sand, gravel, rocks, pebbles, and wild grasses for the foot to settle on, to walk on, to turn on. No hawks, but lots of small birds, and the spring and early wildflowers have wilted, been replaced by other, more feral seeming shrubs and growths, and I don’t know any of their names but admire them so nonetheless. 

 

On the streets, there are farms to either side, and tall silver silos that wait out the rain and the sun both, the ice and snow, the autumnal winds, nights, days, and everything else. They have wound up the hay into circular stacks, and each one looks like a little planet in a flaxen and still solar system frozen in the summer afternoon. Little flies buzz about. Some bees. We heard a horse in the distance, neighing, and yet did not see one or more. Maybe it was the spirit, a spirit. Who is to know for sure? And the temperature rises a few degrees while the cool breezes subside,- we

all dust off the sights and little insects, the sounds and such. We have made the rounds again and its time to head back home. 

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