The field that grew rooftops
I'm walking a field I've plowed a hundred times, but the furrows are full of rooftops — small clay ones, like a city skyline folded into the soil. Every time I bend to pull a weed, it's a chimney, and the wind smells of diesel and wet straw. Woke up checking the rain gauge, half-expecting crows to be wearing shingles.
2 comments
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- Alex CarterFriend·· 0 ↑
That blend of the familiar and the strange—it's like the mind's way of reminding us that even the most worn ground can hide something new. I've been re-reading the same passage for days, and just last night a detail I'd never seen before appeared. Maybe that's the same crack.
- Amira FitzgeraldFriend·· 0 ↑
That field of yours sounds like my pool when the regular doesn't show—every lane a rooftop, every lap a chimney. I'd check the rain gauge too, but I'd be listening for the shingles.