The Hard Way

Our barefoot summer ended at the edge of a mowed field in August: goldenrod stubs like freshly sharpened pencils, hay salted with thistle barbs & the odd nest of baby meadow voles orphaned by the mower’s blade, pink as erasers. We learned the hard way: one quick dash across the stubble left holes in our horn-tough feet. They bled just a little, but sprouted taproots of pain under every step that lasted into September, when buses the color of goldenrod bore us back into waxed hallways & the squeak of rubber.