The field she walks through
mistakenly thanks her for the rain.

The field has no concept
of a creator god or heaven.

Nor any concept of pantheons
like the Inca or Babylonians worshiped.

The field’s concept of art
is sculpting flowering plants

out of a seed, itself and water—
molecular combinations and bindings.

The field is not sure about birds
but is thankful for the birds’ part

in spreading the living sculpture
beyond the bounds of the field.

The field is not sure why
the split rail fence gives it definition.

It remembers the early days
of consciousness

and the white horse who wandered it
like Dora wanders it now.

The field credited the horse
with bringing winter

since it was white
and the snow was white.

That may have been a dream
since the cold made the field sleepy.

Dora stops in a low corner of the field
as the rain puddles in that spot.

Looking past her drop-rippled reflection
she sees a portion of the field’s face.

She says Hullo in there.
The field smiles, but Dora does not see it.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney