needs no conversation

listening to: "islands in the stream" - feist & the constantines

I've been thinking about it, and while I feel impassioned in the mountains, I feel peaceful in cornfields. I'm wild about mountains, but I'm at home with fields and fields of green silks. I grew up behind a cornfield, I know the scratch of running bare legged through knee-high plants, the sting of loose rocks of feed corn flung hard at tanned arms, the throb of corn cuts at night after an afternoon spent in homemade crop-circles. I know the amity of a darkening twilight overlooking the field, watching fireflies wink on, and I swell with pleasure in the early morning, watching sun creep up over dew-wet plants. I feel small in the mountains, apart from them, swallowed, and I like that. But when I'm surrounded by cornfields, I feel oneness and belonging. Four years ago, I claimed placelessness-- emotional wayfaring-- transience. I was proud to be apart. But now, though my friends laugh and shake heads, I am so pleased to wake up somewhere familiar. The window in my bedroom overlooks a cornfield again, and it tickles me.



shalomshalom.