Woke up in a parking lot, air-mattresses gone flat, the sun selecting targets for the shadows to attack. So make a visor with your hand and squint at where you’re from—a lonely line of buildings you can block out with your thumb. Salute the ways we tried. And no one knows we’re anywhere we’re not supposed to be, so stay awhile and watch the wind throw patterns on a field. This crop withstood the months of snow, the scavengers and blight, tuned every ear towards a tiny lengthening of light, and found a way to rise. We know this world is good enough because it has to be. Allow the hope that we will meet again, out in the winter wheat. Find me in the winter wheat.
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