In the summer the unyielding sun
Stretches its tap and lateral roots downward
Then neglects them like unruly children.
I listen to the thick-throated crows
Swarm to the fields.
The sky is red like a tinted window
Streaked with breath and steam.
Every night, I think of the fields panting.
Does no one sleep except the crows,
And they in black watchfulness?
Not the open-eyed town,
So rich in sweat and overplowed earth.
We seem sunk in a well:
Fish-eyed, drowned in silence.