Last July left shivers, barefoot in rivers, when I ventured from the farm. It’s just that I needed space but wanted less, and was tired of the feeling there.
We all get a little scared.
Lightning bugs and fields of light, the air hung heavy and warm. August brought a change of heart, change of greenery at the farm. Those strange weeks took my neighbor’s sight, and eventually his life. I never saw a deer again after that. And I packed my bags and left.
Three thousand, two hundred, eight-five — the miles I had to myself. Time to think about what went wrong, and the failures I had ahead. The green grass turned from moss to dust, the further I went West.
And I guess this is that space I needed, and never wanted, and still dread.
Keep on hoping for the best, they say. But I’m just betting on the rest.