The Field and the Wet Weight

The field stretches, a pale green enamel flatness, until the single telephone pole stands. I walk toward it. My bare feet press onto the boards; the floor remembers being water. A low, wet sound comes up through the soles of my feet. I find a crumpled letter tucked beneath the pole’s base. The ink on the paper is sepia, and the script is my own hand, dated three years ago. I smooth the creases, and the small weight of the paper makes my jaw ache. I turn the letter over, looking for a signature, but there is only the pale yellow corner where the paper has stained itself. A metallic scent rises from the damp earth, cold and clean. I lift my arm; my shoulder feels suddenly empty, like it shed its weight. I look out across the uninterrupted plain, watching the pole hold the steady line of black wire against the afternoon sky.