Spinning Pins

The painter and the weaver are unmoored, whales in a blank ocean of sod, pins themselves to hawks or the sun. They cast shadows that ripple on the seedheads, towers broadcasting dark on what will broadcast new grasses.

The painter traces a long arc as he walks, impatiently, a little in front of the weaver. She watches the hair riffle on the back of his head. She thinks of writing to her sister. A truck's loud brakes, half a mile away, carry over the windbreaks. The sun washes through her view, too abundant to see.

They come to the edge of the field and enter the province of a spreading oak with near-horizontal branches seven feet off the ground. It is a world. The ground underneath is cool and springy. From here the field is a field, not a sea, and the place to lie down is obvious.