I am not made of manure, and I cannot grow in this place. Roots, today, seem like a disgrace to the ground they burry themselves in. I’d rather be the milkweed seeds.
Standing in the spaces between cornrows, the sky it’s usual pre-winter gray, she sees old midwestern weeds bumble across the recently shorn stocks. Her bladder and bowels full, but her mind unready to return home thinks away the pressures and buys her walk a few more minutes outside. Alfresco, this could be considered the largest room to be contained in. Old telephone-pole trees stand as walls, blocking harvest devastating gusts. Here and there she spots an occasional hole, little rodent dwellings. If she were a mouse, this may be the best place to live, but then, reconsiders: the unforgiving tractors and violent upheaval of food source and coverage. Her stomach mourns the mice. She sees a dead crow, and her mind blames the farmer, without question. Her poorly covered feet move delicately over and across, her long skirt catching here and there, and her hands outstretched from her body, keeping balance and hovering above her waist. She exits the falsely protected corn field, now where last summer’s grasses were allowed to grow and die untouched. The wind, it pushes against her chest, an aggressive force grabbing her by the collar and lifting her of the ground, yet forcing her back. The skirt inflates, her legs acting like a kite frame. Her body moves from the earth in a grand arch, and as she looks down past her toes she wonders at what speed and angle she must regain gravity in order to not crash back onto earth.
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