October on Max Patch

As I lay on Max Patch, hat over my face, the sharp sun burned into my black pants. Thousands of autumn insects pulsed and sizzled beneath the sound of heavy panting. (My dog is very excited. She doesn't get out enough. Neither do I.) A dusting of murmurings in the distance, a plane's boomy rumble.

Along these winding gravel roads of broken barns and rusted silos that led us here, most of the corn has been harvested leaving only amoebic graveyards of sticks. Still, some of the ragged waifish plants remain in soldier's gridlock. 

Way up here at the top, with it's 360-degree-view, the gentlest breeze rides up the hills and kisses my neck. I sit up to study the color of hundreds of folds that appear all at once green, brown, and blue, much like the rich ocean just off the coast.

It's never occurred to me how much I love the seeds of fall: mint umbels, goldenrod tufts, and aster puffs. They are austere in their browns and whites, strong with the promise of new life.