Two birds fly across the grey-clouded sky, & I imagine
myself picnicking under one of the lone trees atop the
hill with a lover & some children. They’d squeal & run
up the grassy slope just to roll down it, staining their
shorts & nauseating themselves. Of course, it wouldn’t

be stormy like today. A tree weeps over a pond & a little
creek; down the road, a man walks across his field & looks
at the bales of hay. He touches one. Leans his nose against
it. Smells. It reminds him of his son. How he yelled. & yelled.
& yelled. How his son cried. The man begins to weep, too, like

the tree. Inside his home, it’s quiet. All the beds are made up
nicely. His son never made the bed. I’m not picnicking today,
but I do step outside. Press my hands into the Earth. Dig them
deeper. Wiggle my fingers around. I pull them up. Rough. Callused.
Dirtied. Large & heavy. Punishing. Like that father, I shuddered.