Poem

The Fields Shine From This Hill

“What is it you want from here?”

Photo by fred tromp on Unsplash

In the distance, a flock chases conscience.
Flapping wings tuck to sleek flight, and back,
silhouettes chasing across the horizon
rise like a sickle losing its edge.

The fields shine from this hill.
Where the grass is tall, it sways.
Where the bull thistle’s purple bloom floats,
a bee clings. The longer I stay,
the more my presence is noted.
A winged emissary soon inquires,
what is it you want from here?

I wish to call to her from here
but these hills refuse the echo of my voice,
I plead. The emissary is derisive.
These hills know more than they should,
and don’t interfere.
I stand to leave, uprooting a stalk,
and with strength from irreverence
I throw it far down the hill,
starting a veiled flock to flight.