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looking back at homestead nights
Folder:
backburner results
"homestead nights"
The road into the city
was a long inhale —
open field to hedgerow,
hedgerow to brick.
By dusk, the air
tasted of rain on stone,
and the streetlamps
were the only stars
that didn’t blink.
In the kitchen,
boots left by the door
like commas in a sentence
I’d been writing all summer.
Nights there were wide —
crickets stitching the dark,
the wind combing the wheat,
the barn’s slow breath
settling into the rafters.
Come morning,
the rooster’s call
would cast me back
into the farm’s grammar,
but for now
I carried two lives —
one lit by streetlamps,
one by the moon on tin —
and felt the tracks
still pulsing
under my skin.
.
