The Field of Loose Wire

The thread pulls taut from the back of the cedar wardrobe, running through the air to the telephone pole. I stand on the dry dirt of the field, the single pole marking nothing. My weight settles warm where I stopped standing ten seconds ago. I remember a color, a specific shade of mustard yellow, but the reason I walked out here, the point, dissolved like chalk dust. I open my mouth to speak the name—the name of the person who called—and the sound hits the air, breaks apart, and vanishes. It becomes nothing. The telephone pole remains, carrying the empty weight of the wires, humming a pitch I cannot place.