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The Field

If you sit in a field for long enough
the field becomes you,
Swallows circle your neck,
a fox reverses through you like a dream.
An owl takes your young,
your young are rabbits, their taking fate.

The trees eventually drop their guard,
they drop their leaves to earth.
But first the nights and days of bats and sheep
propel the summer.
Squirrels skirt then perch upon you,
their bites into your shoulder tentative
then deep, sustaining, blood
descending their chins.
A caravan appears in time,
immigrants or actors, a boy
on a camel, no it must be a horse,
you wave or shoo them,
they cannot tell, they are far as can be,
their route won't intersect
with the stump you've chosen.

If you sit in a field for long enough,
you are always in that field
no matter where you wander.
You are always in that field,
and not just sitting. You rise
sometimes and dance,
throwing yourself with a grace
belying each of your obstacles
(the body, the self-conscious spirit).
And no matter where you are
when you dance this way,
the field explodes with something—
a swarm, kaleidoscope, or blossom.
And you venture on like this, you and the field,
whatever light or storm befalls you.

Gabriel Fried

The Children Are Reading
Four Way Books

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