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walking in the stalk fields, through the sticks of cut crop, over the rain
flattened wildflowers, to the edge of the field where the stony ground and the
sound of a lone wind make me think of wasteland, of a contented desolation. Am
amused to find a child’s toy lying by a bale, a Tyrannosaurus Rex cast in
plastic, missing both forelegs and all four feet. A dinosaur in a baler
accident: nope, didn’t expect that. It’s not an astonishing life defining
moment, nor does it need to be. A quirky surprise serves to remind that though
lives are plentiful, this one is unique to me. Maybe, in more exotic time
zones, other people are uncovering utterly mind-boggling prehistoric beasts,
maybe they are at home, wedged in armchairs, frowning at rain. I am here,
treading out the boundary mud.
I like this post! Fields here in California are also dotted in bales, yet no one sees the balers. One thinks one hears them in the groggy dawn but they are, after breakfast, gone. Why Ufologists get excited over crop-circles but not bales escapes me.
ReplyDeleteI think I saw one, but on the road, not actually baling. It looked like a Star Wars vehicle. Or did I dream that? Mysterious!
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