Imagine what it’s like

when the corn is high.

When the sun sets

a eight.

Day burns long–

trails off like incense

out the window of my

room in July when

breeze saunters through

the house and slams doors

like the ghost of my grandfather.

or the spirit of tornadoes

and lightning bolts

that somehow miss

our roof.

Imagine wind chimes.

Hear window chimes.

Imagine what the fields

are like with fox paths.

Follow them into the

home with slammed

hallway doors

and incense tentacles.