Orange Fields

My pen pauses to breathe as I steal a long glance out the rain-struck winow. The fields are orange again. You know the ones I speak of, where we used to run and surrender our bare feet to the eternal grassy stretch of what they called “nothing”, and “insignificant”- the place where the tall blades reached our waist, when their fragile backs were not arched by demanding winds who forced them to bow before the goddess sun, hanging high and brilliant in our unceasing skies. And when she could shine no longer for that day, the rolling fold of the valleys would open for her to settle into, cradling the immense orb of light in their pocket and singing sweetly a lullaby to calm creation, while early evening winds brushed against our sun-kissed skin. We’d delve into those lasting days that offered so much, while we unknowingly gave back so little. It was ritual for us to escape the confinements that were home, and run to the orange fields still glowing with the stain of amber light from what the sun had left, guessing our hours that remained before the velvet robe of imperial blue and royal violet night was spread across the sky again, as we knew it would- like a soundless phantom. But night could not send us away. We would be soon accompanied by the early sparks that seemed to dance with one another, suspended and weaving through the sky like tiny threads and silver beads made up of something untouchable. We would lay on our backs beneath that sky to see them all, making artless impressions of our figures on the trampled grass, and brushing them away with our hands when we stood to leave, so that no one would know we were there except us. I cannot remember if a word was ever said, or needed, there in our world where nothing else existed. Our voices were only heard softly mingling with the hushed whisper of air coursing through the earth when we endeavored to number the stars. “One, two, three... or did I already count that one?” They were infinite. And do you remember the song we used to sing while we rushed home for fear of worried guardians awaiting our nightly return? I’m forgetting too...