From Issue 10: Fields

Fields Larry Eby Dust is frightening. It hangs in the air, slow motion above a wheat field, the sun in particle light. It’s the vanishing of it that frightens me the most. Could it sink and never return? Could the crows freeze midair and never return to motion? Fragility in movement. I imagine death seeking the town like a fog—does it roll?—over another empty lot, so many of them vacant, but what does the vacancy mean when we know nothing of darkness? More questions: if I were to build a swing from this town to another country, would they accept…

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