Saw a field that was beautiful
And wrote I poem I've forgotten
For my recorder ran out
And I was alone
But spoke still into Existence
The first time I ever beheld the true beauty of a meadow
Though I'd lived here most my life.
And then, came the Farmer
Who now rents the field
(Intruder)
And I saw the beginning of the death of the field.
I walked around the edges
And picked the flowers
into a small bouquet.
And those of, I believe, Alfalfa, or of hay?
(intruder, but with sympathy, and accepted by the field)
though seeming quite scarce in all the diversity,
I assumed, the reason for the death of the field.
A bouquet, for the death of a field.
And when the tractor was obscured
I disappeared
I remembered later, when I had first entered the field
I was dressed in my black robe
And buzzards circled above me.

I returned later
(Fairly later
For the field was drying)
And saw the field was flat
And smelled good
And was nice to lie in.
I found someone's home
or a nest for the night
hollowed out of the harvest
or of the casualties
And around it many flowers of the crop plant.

I saw insects fleeing
the butterflies didn't know where to lite
A spider carried her egg sack.
I saw a grasshopper,
prior, when the field was alive
I'd seen one and said,
I would not hurt it.
Someone bit me,
but I didn't know until I rose from the grass.
perhaps a spider.
I am a giant, of Death.
But the crickets on the other side of the road
Who had prior arrested my attention
For crickets are sacred to me
And they were singing loudly in the grass
A cluster of them
Who did not quiet when i got near
They were still loudly singing
In their cluster
On the safe side of the road.
And I think I saw, some butterflies that side
Not having such a hard time.

And I'd fashioned a crown out of the drying crop
And some purple clover flowers
And some other pink flower, for ornamentation
I had before been in black and the buzzards flew above
Herald to the death of a field

I went back later.
It's growing back.
But in the lifetime of an insect.
Much time has passed.

And I found a dried dead toad, a few days ago,
on the edge of the road
through that meadow
not much remained
wonder if it didn't escape.
Or made it to the road
but died of wounds.

--Lone Companion