It is very grey outside
and dozens of white ticket stubs stand erect from the tops of seats like prairie flora,
all leaning left as though the wind were blowing.
The violin and windchimes through my earphones invoking a sense of feudal anime.
The intensity of the music grows, a severe whisper,
and I anticipate the man speeding silently through the white bent grasses in hakama, bearing a sword.
But really, it’s New Jersey.
I peer across the tops of the white grasses;
my eyes bear left thirty degrees and I spot the electrical wires and eight-unit cinderblock apartment complexes.
Breathy flute reminds me that I would rather be dreaming of the field, heavy with silence.
The stirring winds call me to dance.
Who am I? The grass? The silent man?
Or am I across the field, waiting for him to put down the sword and rush home?