Dew collects on the tobacco leaves,
dripping on the sandlugs
at the bottom of the stalk,
waking up the rattlesnakes.

Pecan trees sleepwalk
in the orchard, branches splayed
like the long arms of God
banishing the void with a wave.

In the house a boy is dreaming
of his mother and father
standing in a field of tobacco, 
growing smaller and smaller

as he leaves them behind.
He shifts in the sheets, damp
from his body.  The porch swing 
swings at the slightest breeze.