on the cornfields

I watch the fields fly by,
drying corn on near-brown stalks,
and I smell the scent of the leaves.

I could have lived here,
quite happily,
could have walked barefoot and swirling skirt into the cornfields,
could have been swallowed up by the stalks,
and disappeared,
sinking into the earth itself, emerging married to the land.

It's in my blood, my history, this hot humid farmland,
and my heart feels strangely whole in this place.
I think my own roots are tangled deep amongst the corn's.

I close my eyes and dream of it,
but somehow,
I can't quite imagine a life devoid
of chickadees.