I. You wade across, the stalks graze your waist, everything beating inside the wheat, buzzing through the blond hairs of your bare thighs. This field is enough to hide in. You shed your robe, lie, stretch your limbs across the rough green, an indentation; the sharp blades fall back around you. Down in, the blades on your face, the sun entering your skin and the coarse stalks intertwined in the strands of your hair. Each life here crawls or rises or flies. There is only the movement in the heat and the heat arriving: sweat in every crevice, collecting where limbs bend, behind knees, in the fold where breast falls to chest. Above you, the stems of Queen Anne’s lace, the tilt of the queens’ necks falling back to the wide June sky. II. They’ve come with the bushhog. Today this field is flat as horizon. You take your bare feet to the center and the flatness pulls you down. Rising around, only the tight bales of darkening hay — everything that buzzed caught, trapped inside with only their last expressions. You await the storm here, where its coming is most known. Listen. The dense drops already heave themselves toward pavement out on the main road. Bring it on, sky. Send the wind billowing up my flimsy dress; make it cool and my nipples will rise in answer. Deliver the thunder: bold invisible tremors inside clenched air like quake waves zagging up through each layer of planet. Carry the rain to this field, my body a shield to the plot where I lie. I will get what the ground gets.