The Field Endures the Coat

The long flat field stretches, yellow dry grass bending under a weight I cannot name. A single telephone pole stands here, concrete base stained green near the ground. I walk toward it. Hanging on a low branch is a trench coat, charcoal wool, too heavy for the mild air. It belongs to someone who has no face, yet I smooth the lapels with both hands. Nearby, a door opens onto another door. The inner door is oak, marked with the year 1903. I look at the frame. Beside the hinges rests a porcelain bird, painted solid amethyst. I reach out and touch the glaze; the coolness of it spreads across my fingertips. The coat smells of wet chalk and distant cedar. I lift the bird. Its weight is exactly the weight of my elbow. The passage gapes between the two doors. I stand in the threshold, listening to the sound of the pole humming a low, steady frequency.