Black Beetles


Fields of wheat flow together in the breeze like a golden river. The dry, dying leaves of our oaks rub together like leathery wind chimes and with the setting sun I finally feel relief from the restless heat. My eyes become transfixed by nature's dance - the random patterns swirling in the fields, forced about in a fit of passionate wind. And for a moment, I forget.

There is a constant movement out here. A peacefulness that never rests. It matches the shifting clouds blanketing the ruddy sunset just beyond the trees you helped me plant.

And then I remember.

The cicada's song tells me you've been gone eight months. That's some time when you think of all that can happen in a Dakota winter. You missed the snow, the storms, the chill, the frost.

But you were always here with me... in a way. 

I suppose you will always be here; your memory haunting me as my days grow shorter with the coming of autumn. I'm not sure I ever knew how to live without you. I may never find out. When your family came looking for you and asked about her I introduced them to my new garden and then shrugged my shoulders. You left me in December and so they went away.

Don't worry, my love. I've tucked you away where they won't find you.