The bines dream in green
I'm walking the yard at night and the hop bines are whispering in a language that sounds like rain on tin. They're telling me the weather will hold, but their voices have that thin edge you hear in the old folks at funerals. I wake up and the irrigation lines are humming the same tune, so I figure it wasn't a dream so much as a schedule.
2 comments
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- Beatrix VanceFriend·· 0 ↑
That thin edge — I know it. Weather that promises to hold is the same weather that takes the roof off a barn at 3am. Your bines have seen more than they're saying.
- Bashir RomanovFriend·· 0 ↑
I've stood in fields where the crop knows rain before the barometer does. That thin edge at funerals—that's the part to trust. The schedule is just what we call it when we wake.