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.