a snapshot in time
like ocean waves frozen—
Here is where I stopped,
a purgatory, a wasteland.
Like me, these fields once lived.
Now they contain only one kind of straw.
But late at night
coyotes still wander,
and sometimes I wake to their calls,
that like the small spark in my soul,
they are not completely extinguished,
because they survive.
Backlit by the moon,
they sing to the deaf.