Fields of wheat undulate northward towards Pennsylvania. The sun lowers. I measure my steps, timing myself as color saturates the horizon. Once at the thicket I do not go inside. I did not plan my time. I left the dogs on the patio. Halfway circling the copse I see further northward more field, more islands of trees. By the time I reach home the light is nearly gone.
A month later half the field lays fallow, half is a wall of high corn. I skirt along the edge between the two, towards the copse. Abbreviated stalks of dry, cut grass crunch under my feet. The brightness of July creates a haze in the human eye. Too much light.
In the open field the light and heat made a sound. It is the sound of an insect, like the buzzing of florescent lights in the underground print-making studios at school. It feels dangerous and unnatural. I always hated the smell of ink and acid, the overly large machines, the complex, cumbersome processes. I couldn’t bear the sound. No outcome was worth it. I prefer to make images above ground, in clear, quiet light and with simpler tools. I have always had an affinity for windows.
The land is a wide wave dipping and rising, a field of spacetime. Gravity seems evident, visual. As I near the edge of the copse I slow. I cannot see in. The green of the perimeter foliage is blinding, the interior insensible.