When we’re gone, there’ll be wheat, and it still ambers every fall, and it dies, and stubbles again through the earth. And it won’t have meant much of anything. And there’ll be a pang in the cavity of a cumulonimbus, and that will be all. Blackbirds drag circles in dust, footprint tapestries of meadow, and heat hangs low over the milkweed. Coyotes howl all night. No, not howl, cry. They cry until their lungs ache, and then they sleep in the clearing, and the grass dews, and the fog breaks. And it won’t have meant anything more than a smooth, white pebble in the face of sandstone. And the only trace will be pine needles scattered across the path, sinking into the mud. It’s raining, and the crows are little scorched things, burnt all the way through. This is what home means when home is a sunspot waving over the field. When we’re gone, we’ll love more. We’ll have more to lose.