fielding tender_square crabgrass tendrils crunch under- foot as i survey the yawning expanse of land. the sky’s expression gives nothing away, but to my left, the goldenrod gather in a cluster of light. all i want is to be a furry pollinator drawn to the source, my limbs cloaked in its finest dust. there’s work to do. stanchioned by a series of red ropes, the flowers await me while i throw a fuse line whip to wind—every crack ignites lightning, the quick burn nearly consuming my fingers. 211023 what's it to you? who go blather from