Stripped of ears, the stalks are holding green. 
The farmer walks his field. Invisible crows 
are screaming in his ears. Surely he knows 
that all he ever has is what is seen.

A shadow sweeps the field and circles back 
to its beginning in the woods The hawk 
returns to its empty limb. The farmer, awkward 
and on foot can only feel the lack

of lift beyond what can or cannot be— 
the swirling crows that vanish when he looks. 
A disarray of nerve. And fear. The hand that shook 
this morning when he tried to drink his tea.

This is his field, his hedgerow, fence and wood: 
He doesn’t see regret. He wouldn’t if he could.

This poem first appeared in Town Creek Poetry.
Used here with the author’s permission