the field out there
is that expanse

hazed in glary
tired light


            the field
            gone to yellow
            at the endings


birds are out in it
and too much with us

the passing of our train
indistinct to them


                        they know
            in the upwash
                        finding shapes
                                    to split the flow fields


the towns
have the sense
of being paraded

            the life in them
            stripped back
            to glint

                                    the turbines

                        turn the head
                        anemotropic

                        hum the skull
                        to juice the mind


            the field out there
            meets the field of the mind

at the horizontal


            the faked water
            of the heat
            the turbines cut