Bones in a Wheat Field

The crows picked hard
at the bones in the gold field,
until they lay bleached white
and stripped bare.
I watched, reduced from waiting out
the winter,
left anemic from all that pale grey
and watery light.
I found bones in high summer
while the wheat
swayed in a fine wind
and the heat moved
the slow pulse of my blood
some place deep and quiet.
Over and far away,
I might have heard
the faint brush of a sigh
on the back of my neck.
Or maybe it was just
the wind ruffling new rushes.
I might have heard the sigh
of the wind carrying you
away.
I might have heard
the bones crumbling into dust.