Prairie

I walk home at five o’clock. September trees are turning yellow, the harvested fields are covered with the stiffness of wheat stubble, yet the weeds along the roadside are still green. Small yellow daisies bloom and the white berries are on the dogwood bushes. One or two hazelnut bushes still hold the tiny packaged nuts, the raspberries are gone, a few remaining chokecherries hang over the fence. The air smells of ripeness, dust from the distant thresher drifts about. A pickup laden with ripe wheat passes me, someone unfamiliar waves. I brush into the dried grasses, stop to find a bright red stone, something to take to school tomorrow, a round pebble to roll between my fingers .