The tractor has left rows in the grass,
somewhat like rows of cut cane. Louisiana,
I take you everywhere.
The field itself is a giant row
between aisles of fir and alder,
a chute running west to east,
as I will run west to east,
not like the hurrying of the sun–
beginning and end being one and all that.
Some might call this loafing.
It is such a pleasure at this point
not to care what the locals
in their trucks, the loggers,
and the UPS man might think
if they saw me from the road.
A field with no boundaries,
an expanse of tideland
is more honest really
my back sinking in the mud,
high tide covering my joy.