In a field of wheat at dusk. My knees painted deep by strokes of flaxen brush. My feet tremble from the cold glow of moon. In darkness, nothing's coming for me soon. When the light's emptied out, what remains? In the night, I think about my days. By a chance of sight, I see some florets crash. Crash to the ground like soldiers and aeroplanes, the ones who felt the fate of chance. When I think on the times I crashed, there's a catch in my throat. What resonates, a single note: I have always returned to dusk.