sometimes barley

a fallow field is a field at rest.
picture the ducks and geese, wandering at will.
spots of weeds and weed seeds, and all
that left-over corn or wheat or rye.
the sun rises on a fallow field,
and the main thing one sees is
brown, and tufts of plant life --
clover, or broom sedge. soon, the
birds begin their wandering, and
by noon, lost in the vastness,
two good-looking young men also
wander into the field, and sit
down in the middle of it, miles
and miles from anyone else,
and the two young men
talk. they talk about
the vast fallow field in which
they are sitting, the birds
that they see wandering about --
the ducks, the geese, the
blackbirds, the doves,
and the quail. the
two young men take off
their shirts
and they each slip a
bit of brown-orange
wheat stem into their
mouths, and they chew at
it gently, and talk
about the field, and the
birds, and their lives.
the sunshine on the
young men's shoulders
raises little beads of sweat,
and when one young man
initiates sexual activity,
the other young man reciprocates
with great enthusiasm.
after, the birds go
right on wandering
through the fallow field,
and the two young men
pick bits of debris off of
each other's
backs and bellies
and shoulders and necks
and hair. then
one of the young men
says "i love you"
and the other young man
says "i love you, too."
it's nearing 1 p.m.,
and the aroma of old
wheat is ripe and
pungent and
welcome.

--Carl Miller Daniels