The Man In the Field

Everyday he was there. On his knees, standing, or kneeling Gazing into the sun and the colors He watched the road, the hay, the horizon, and sometimes even me. His eyes followed my bucket and me. I felt, not uncomfortable, but as if a passive madness were there in that field, watching, always watching. Once I stopped to say, "Hello." He ignored me, standing erect, absorbing the sun, and gazing at the golden hay. He was never in the same place. Sometimes, he was near the road. So close, I thought I could hear his breath, his very thoughts as I passed, thoughts I would never repeat. The sound of the water sloshing in my pail and his mind in rhythm. Yesterday, he was lying in the middle of the field, staring upward into the sun. Motionless and still… Today he was gone. His absence left the field seemingly empty. Yet… the haystacks and the scattered straw, the sky, the sun itself Brighter…Alive Author notes: Inspired by “Haystacks in Province,” by Vincent Van Gogh