274/365: The Cold Grass Cracked

The roads dull rope tolled out and out
behind gravel gripped wheels,
loose and heavy.
I walked the high crest of a stranger's field
led by hoof prints pressed into clay,
a trail of cigarettes scattered in the bowls behind me.
Cold grass cracked under the test of my palm.
I wanted to curl myself down into the hollow of a calf
where the herd had pressed into the fallow.
I wanted to sleep there, sweet mulch against my cheek,
until the rain rolled in.

I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.