The field the colors of corn burning, yellow and orange and white in rows. Smoke clings to the brush.
Crows hold in a drift and circle.
At the edges of the field the leaves turn gas, and the odors of locust and alder blow off. In the center, where the fire started, a coal in the shape of a hand turns ash. I cannot pick it up, yet show it to you. Turning into daylight from a country of dreams, the vivid watercolors dry quickly white and black. I try going back to sleep, seeing a white field and a furrow, but wake completely, hot and dry.