The Field and the Copper Weight

The field stretches flat, yellow dry grass under the pole. I stand near the base of the wooden pole; the paint flakes off in green chips. My hand closes around the brass key. It holds a persistent warmth, a heat that resists the air. I taste the salt from my tongue, the metallic tang of having opened my mouth, but the words never reach my mind.

Above the dusty ground, the ceiling lowers. It is not a roof, but a sheet of compacted air, and it holds a small weather. It is a perfect, contained drizzle, the size of a dinner plate, falling in vertical, silver strands. These droplets strike the dry earth and immediately evaporate, leaving the soil smelling of ozone and wet cement.

I lift the key, its weight noticeable, and I hear the distant, rhythmic clank of a freight train that never moves. The small weather shifts its concentration, and a single patch of deep lavender colour spreads across the otherwise white field. The key's warmth spreads up my palm, moving toward my wrist.