The Plains

I put down my detective novel and look out, over the plains. So much light. If anything was out there, I would see it. But there are only a few nervous farmers and their wives. It occurs to me that one of these families could be my own, lost in bitterness, like a sideshow at a county fair. This way they live and tell nobody. This way the few elms that are left get back their leaves. This way, whenever I look up, somebody else is missing.  end