In the overgrown field, I am lying in the wildflowers, cradled in Queen Anne’s Lace and honeysuckle, and asters and cornflowers, and looking up to the sky with the white fast clouds, and I feel the earth dance in a wild spin, and it makes me dizzy, and I see the black wrecks of charcoal, from the fires burning beneath the tall red brick smokestack, a murmuration released into the air and caught in the winds, and they are patterning with us, but the best part is the ripe sweet whole smell...
