Field Running

What is it about a wide-open space,

That encourages the mind to wander,

Outward toward the edge with quiet grace,

Hands at its lower back, going yonder.

The grass is cool beneath its barefoot feet,

The sky a fall tapestry in red smears,

The gold coin sun splashes in its retreat,

Over the pale blue shadowed tufts, it peers.

Meandering through many empty fields,

In solemn thought or an excited trek,

In the wavy passing of summer’s time,

I learn that I am but a little speck.

The imagination on rides of clouds,

Loses all worries in bright breezy shrouds.