Thoughts> Only June

The flow of green outside concurs to a halt with the train as the tracks are obstructed by large machinery crossing over to the fields. The sun seeps between the leaves and slips to soak in the sky coaxing the clouds to form pyramids of endless height where lone crows circle the bases. I cede an apology to the people of the fields as I lay amidst their lands in the silent still heat. The field is the womb of the people. They dig deep and grow inside and sprout out and run out to the world on the cold hard ground and return to penetrate it after the frosts fade.

The train may be stuck but on the tracks alternative routes would all be the same, of the same distance with comparable views from similar stops and stations. The fields move outside the train, the people roll along in groups of tools, in groups of fields rotating, in tasks of applying tools to fields. The sun is the hub in all wheels and the spokes revolve around taking the forms of plows, shovels, scythes, flails. The crows circle in pairs at nights, the spokes rotate around the sun at day and the circle is always attended to.

These days are long yet these years have been short and the scythes always arrive and the sun gets tired in the end as the flail beats. Here the earth reverberates in slow breath of the ancients. The people return to the fields and the crows fly in pairs in service to the blind eye of the elder god and it always takes more than one crow to make a murder and so they gather.

The wheels roll, the spokes gyrate, the circle spins, we move again. The flow of green and the crows above the fields outside. The tired sun beating like the flail even as the scythes are yet to appear and it is only June. The people of the fields outside. The tools and the circle of unsleep and of the tired sun.