The Field Keeps Breathing

At noon the prairie lowers its green voice and lets the wind pass through without a door. The grasses bend, then gather up their poise, as if the earth has taught them what for. A hawk turns once above the empty fence. The clouds make room. The old gate gives a creak. Nothing announces what the day intends; the field is patient, and the silence speaks. I came to ask the land for something clear, but found my breathing matching what was there: one long exhale, the seed-heads drawing near, then room enough for weather everywhere.