Eagle-Eye Girl

You marrow-deep in the bone-dry field, sprawled like a wishbone snapped wrong- the ground drinks your weight, but won't swallow you whole. wind combs its fingers through the wheat, a mother's touch turned phantom. That house- small as a postage stamp, licked, sealed, and sent too far- waits with its back turned. your arms are bridges to nowhere, your legs, two broken clock hands, stuck in a time that does not move. still, your gaze- sharp as a knife-edge moon- slices the dance like a butcher's twine. the land here is a tight-lipped secret, a locked jaw of yellowed grass, a lungful of dust that never exhales. you wear silence like a second skin, but your eyes, keen as a needle bite, thread the gap between longing and gravity. eagle-eyed girl, you have the hunters staring, but the hunted bones tell me- does the sky ever blink first?