Cornfields

I sold my soul to the state of Illinois in hopes of writing a good story.

 

I dreamt of squirrels flying over golden hills of corn.  Winds followed them with thousands of red and orange leaves.  (They were leaving for a safer place)

 

I watched as the sunburnt sky became filled with sunburnt cardinals.  They filled the empty trees with brand new leaves.

 

Stars danced above lovers in the gravel streets, wrapped in flannel and fleece.  The radio was on, but no one was listening.  The show in the sky was too of too much importance.

 

As I walked from city to city while others slept, the cracks in the urban streets told me stories of rush hour and blasting horns.

 

But the people were all the same.  Everyone was the same shade of gray.  They became well-oiled, routine machines with a constant cup of coffee.  Their dreary smog covered the animals and ran the colors dry.  Everything cracked and choked.

 

I could not stand it.  I took your hand and led you to the busiest intersections in the middle of the night.  Songs of Billie Holiday left my mouth.  The music notes went up into the air and faded away.  We danced.

The stars began to twinkle and guide us through the state.  Buildings unfolded and let the grass grow past the tallest billboards.  I could hear the bees begin to talk about the upcoming summer days as trains of tornados stopped and listened.  The sky above us changed color with each step we took.

You smiled, and my red dress glistened and bled into the roots of the trees and the autumn leaves. 

The wind shared our story with the world.