Everything Yields
The wind bends the wheat in the fields like a river of gold under a bruised sky. I stand at the edge of the ridge, watching the horizon blur where the land folds into the clouds. Somewhere down the valley, a lone barn’s rusted roof groans under the weight of rain, and I imagine it speaking, old and stubborn, like someone refusing to be forgotten. My coat is damp, sleeves heavy with water, and I smell the tang of iron in the air, the earth freshly split open by the storm.
A crow lifts off from a distant fencepost, its wings slicing the gray light with a sharp rhythm. I follow it with my eyes until it disappears behind a curve in the hills, and for a second, I feel unmoored, like gravity has loosened around me. Memories rise unbidden—fragments of voices I have never known, laughter I cannot place, and the sudden flash of heat on my skin from a sun that is no longer there. Time stretches oddly here, elastic and pliable, as if the storm has pressed a hand against the world and whispered, “Everything bends, everything yields.”
I begin to walk along a muddy track, boots sinking with each step. The wind presses against my face, and I imagine it carrying words from somewhere far away, messages I cannot yet read but sense in the pull of its motion. A single poplar shivers in the distance, its branches trembling, and I think perhaps it is laughing at me or at the entire notion that I can make sense of anything at all. I welcome the thought. There is a strange comfort in not knowing.
When the rain thins, the landscape shifts. Patches of green shimmer through the gray, the wet soil giving off its deep, rich scent. I kneel to touch the mud, fingertips leaving dark impressions that will vanish under the next downpour. For a long moment, I am just this—the mud, the rain, the wind—and nothing else matters. Words are unnecessary; existence itself hums in the spaces between sky and earth, a music I am only beginning to hear.
A hawk cries overhead, and I start to run, boots splashing through puddles, arms reaching as if to catch the fleeting sound before it escapes. By the time I stop, my breath coming in quick bursts, I am laughing, surprised at the sheer ridiculousness of my own body in motion, surprised at the clarity of a world still unclaimed by human expectation. I lie flat on the wet grass, soaking, and for a moment, the storm becomes an orchestra, the wind a conductor, and the thunder a percussion I feel in my chest. I am small. I am present. I am wide awake.
by JESSICA WU
Views expressed above represent the opinion of the author and are not intended to represent Lexspects editorial staff or Lexington High School.