What I miss most about the field before the woods — where houses have been built on soil, bulldozed, and rocks, ripped clean of sand and mud — would be the way you wrapped my hand - such small fingers, gripping so tight - as we took each foot, unbearably light, triggering a tumult of grasshoppers in flight, every step exploding like spores - your voice leaping in laugh - it might as well have been math as much as magic at play, the air becoming a perfect thrumming following us all the way home

inspired by a reference to the sounds of grasshoppers in Late Migrations (A Natural History of Love and loss) by Margaret Renkl