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| norbert blei |  | 1. In an Empty Field The land is flat open. And awaits . . . the raven's wing, the lover's nakedness, the angel's shadow. Deep in the horizon, the eye abandons the looker's gaze and floats above the field. The field falls from the sky. Nobody sees you. The more distant the tree, the more beautiful. The field underfoot in all seasons remains scraggly, remains stone, remains stubble, patched earth. The lay of the land listens to itself, the death rattle of weed again-bronzed, burnished. Unyielding but supple in dying. Moving like wind over lake water. Lifting milkweed down across the field like the stillness of first snow when earth patterns present themselves again: wheel ruts, stone fences, fox cavities, nests, rusted barbed wire wrapped around white stone, ring juniper, evergreen and reeling. January white earth. Morning fog. White birches, creamy stone fences, snowy owl, opalescent moon. Ice. Everything far afield is more beautiful. Trees reach closer conclusions. The mystery of a field reveals itself in disspossession, absconding with you without your knowing. Mist lifts the field from the earth into the hands of angels. The field at night absolves the sinner. The darker the night, the surer the step. The clearer the view. The field says you will never arrive. You belong here near the meadowlark's nest and the heart-shaped stone. You are missing. No one will ever hear of you again. A branch has lashed your eye: you see a field of tears, winter white. Kneel. Dig. Bury the thought-bone deep. The truth is we love this cold rain hard earth bare branches roots, leaves, stones, nakedness feather, fur, bone, dark angels, ravens raining on an empty field. | |
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