In the aching morning light, you see
straight to the field of scrub and vines,
and beyond it, to the run-down gate, half-closing
the path to where the maple-sap drips
as grapes deflate in the waning summer,
and knapweeds, coarse but erect, rebel and push
through the soil. Rebekah once told you that, as a child,
she uprooted those pillars of morels with a dusty snap;
and as she filled the plastic Walmart bag, a hatchling fell
from its nest. Not far from there, later, at the fringe of those woods,
your shoe smashed a red ladybug to a smudge on the grass
while you watched a praying mantis chew away at its mate.
Now, you take in the field before the wooden gate—
that empty space passing us by once more.