The Meadow 117 Pastoral Erin Wilson In black boiled wool, we are walking the farmlands together in winter. I am prattling on about Andrew Wyeth. The winter grasses. Well, you know winter grasses... Maybe it is like those old gold sheriff badges. Something of me was hammered into a gold star and that gold star was hammered into you. Everywhere we look: white expanses, bunches of pale yellow bromegrass and fescue, electric lines breaking into kestrels, ravens, crows, flying stars that spread into the fine striations of feathers, which land deftly like rivets driven into barn boards. We both dream of living in a barn someday. I am being nostalgic. You are dreaming of the future. Golden thread, holding fields together, stitches friably through snow.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==