I cannot take you there, that day,
when the tire blew, when the lugs
in the grip of rust held me,
and I cursing, turned to scream
one more time into the blue
face of a god I do not know,
only to be silenced — muted
by the unfurling notion
that some unseen blade
slashed a sidewall and acres
of soybeans rippled away
as if all living is a wave:
green, shifting, darker there
for a moment, then tinged
with gold when wind
and a low afternoon sun
conspire to make it so,
conspire to make wonder
from inconvenience, all the while
holding their chortled breaths.

Image: Benjamin Kraus on Unsplash

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