by the chores
of the day, trips
to the fields to raze
rocks and plow, ignore
the coming and going clouds,
droplets of water hung in the air,
prism beads bending the blinding glare
off at exacting angles, away from the fields.
This shrouded day baths another place, dreams,
landscapes, horizons, to him it’s a pallet, a pyramid,
to the field hand whose eyes wander, imagining its building.