The Shape of Things to Come

Wispy clouds pass like dreams over cornfields near the shoulder of a highway where I stand. I have many homes, but here in Sigourney I’m staying for the week to control traffic in the countryside. The farms that lie along the road each have a story to tell, and each day I talk to the clerk at the hotel and show her a poem. The clerk says she’s getting another job at a nursing home, and we’re drawn together when we say we’ve both known people who had dementia and died. I tell her on a clear day I can look to the south and see the place where the spread of fields touches the sky. This day, the skies grow heavy when draped by dark clouds and a linesman says a storm is on the way and I think of how fast life can change in a matter of hours, but we continue to work under a patter of rain and later hear a tornado formed south of us and tore through the north part of Missouri, we’re saved. After work I savor conversations with the clerk and the waitress in a diner who says she’s married and living on a farm, the friendships I needed while working on the road.