One of My Old Ones - The Field - 8/11/2003

There is a yellow field on the edge of a vast basin. The field, under the bluest sky, is defined by a square of barbed-wire fence. The simple fence made of cedar posts and two strands of red/orange wire, is grayed by time and weather. At the base of every post, and anywhere the hard ground is broken, the eager grasses take hold.

The field follows the slope of the basin and is empty but one tree. It stands guard in the middle, and is naked from the waist down. All foliage within cattle reach is gone. The juniper’s tattered bark waves unenthusiastically in the wind, stripped free by the endless rubbings of restless bovine.