Country Letters

by ALLISONN CHURCH

A bonfire
Burns the night sky,
Cracks like old bones, 
Devours cold bites of 
Evening. Somewhere,
Farm fields open beyond the trees,
Growing pumpkins, not all 
Harvested, as the corn has been.
I have lived here forever and not always,
Jaded as any small town 
Kid who goes away, who
Leaves and returns, like summer,
Meets the world, finds
New places, new tongues,
Outside of this valley.  
Peering over the mountains,
Quietly breathing the scent of 
Raw manure, open ocean sky,
Star-filled like the old
Tobacco crops, replete,
Ubiquitous; I fall between
Voluptuous hillsides, land
Where one broken field is
X’d by a winding road,
Yielding just enough. Here we are 
Zoned for agriculture.