Gravity

GRAVITY

The tractor hums

its own atmosphere.

Out here,

it’s the only sound.

In junior high,

he read sci-fi like scripture—

moon buggies

floating over ash craters,

dust lifting,

hanging,

thinking about leaving.

Earth—

a blue eye on the edge.

Now:

black soil rises,

falls behind him

like breath,

like hair.

He knows the smell

better than his wife.

At Big Red Café,

the men trade short truths:

Yeap.

Looks like it.

They’ll move in next week.

Not talk—

just gravity.

But out here

there’s no tether.

The radio blurs—

Tanya,

a hymn,

then static.

The cab holds him

like a sealed dome.

Left:

land waiting.

Right:

land broken.

Always,

he’s in between.

He cuts the engine.

Silence.

The wind steps in.

A jet—

a low roar,

a far thread

in the sky.

Too slow.

Too fast.

Already gone

ahead of its sound.

I’m alone,

he thinks.

A HUSH BETWEEN SEASONS

No one’s coming.

He fumbles for the keys.

They fall.

Clink,

then nothing.

Buried

in the soft dirt

fourteen feet below.

The sun behind him.

Door open.

He climbs down.

Boots sink.

Soil takes him in.

He walks forward—

tripping,

arms wide,

like a man

spinning

through space

with nothing to hold

but the field

he can’t

ever

leave.

SCOTT SIMPSON