Landscape with a Field of Wild Mustard

Directly across the street from our lively apartment complex 

lies an empty field. Interstate 5 runs along its western edge, 

far enough away that we can see but not hear its motored passing. 

A lone tree grows on that edge, a steady marker of the seasons. 

On our side, the saggy wire fencing is an undeniable invitation. 

We wait, watching, all winter until the first stroke of lemon yellow 

makes itself known. Awakened, we assemble sticks, newspapers, 

string to raise scrappy kites. With delicious excitement we climb 

across this fragile border to set our kites sailing above a sea 

of wild mustard. Only after they have fallen from their cerulean heights 

do we fill our arms with golden blooms to return to our refuge 

across the street.