Wheat Field

I walk its perimeter to the acre’s edge
where the lindens grow, to the gravel road
where cars spin dust into second skin.
I glimpse the rack of a buck, a six-pointer,
as he slips into the stalks.

On the barbed wire fence a white painted
bicycle hangs a foot off the ground, as if
its rider left mid-ride, mid-air.
Plastic flowers thread through the spokes.
I think about the ghosts in my life.

On this breezy day, the wheat trembles
and sways, hums like a whispering
tambourine. When the wind forgets to blow,
the wheat field is almost silent— except
for the rustle of a snake shedding its skin,
and the sound of a mantis praying to its god.

Photo by Paz Arando on Unsplash

Ann Weil

Ann Weil is a retired teacher and professor of special education from Ann Arbor, Michigan. Her work appears in The Indianapolis Review, Third Wednesday, Eastern Iowa Review, Shooter Literary Magazine, The Healing Muse, Halfway Down the Stairs and San Pedro River Review, among other publications. She earned her doctorate at the University of Michigan, and has lived in the Great Lakes region for most of her life. Visit www.annweilpoetry.com for more information.