In a Field Northeast of the Wood
The soy is stunted

The pods hang brown and brittle
The leaves twirl dunly.

The bees!
I never knew there could be so many!

How angry they sound in the afternoon:
Hundreds of white wood hives

Pueblo the edge
Of the wood.

I could not reach the wood
The bramble and burrs
Were too thick

Boundaring the tree line
Incompatible
With my bare legs.

My ranch house sits kilometers
Away, my 4x4 is parked
On the road behind me.

I want to enter the myth
Of the wood, the legend of its shade
To lick the dew off leaves.

The thistle has bloomed to seed.