When you walk, you walk to the edge of the field and look out, the sky a crisp winter blue above you, the harvested bean plants decomposing in the mud and melting snow at your feet.
The wind makes her presence known, now combative, now caressing, a metaphor for the world. She roars her anger then whispers her secrets through the leaves.
The chirp of birds in the bare brown branches, a dog barking in the distance, the styrofoam crunch of snow beneath your boots.
You take a deep breath and hold the winter wind in your lungs, a salve against the incessant chatter of the feed, the demands for righteousness and recognition.
A lone plastic purple bag with white hearts, tightly knotted at the top, full of shit, a metaphor for life.
