Once, escape was a harvested field.
I wove my way through headless milo stalks
looking for something to hold. I found
crickets and moonlight. I lay down,
stretched my weight against earth,
lifted my arms, as if my hands could touch
the Milky Way. They couldn’t, but suddenly
I knew I was looking down and not falling.
Something bigger than me held on,
and for a while we spun there, shining.
— Shelly Krehbiel