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
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