A cool wind blows on summer evenings, stirring the wheat. The wheat bends, the leaves of the peach trees rustle in the night ahead. In the dark, a boy’s crossing the field: for the first time, he’s touched a girl so he walks home a man, with a man’s hungers. Slowly the fruit ripens— baskets and baskets from a single tree so some rots every year and for a few weeks there’s too much: before and after, nothing. Between the rows of wheat you can see the mice, flashing and scurrying across the earth, though the wheat towers above them, churning as the summer wind blows. The moon is full. A strange sound comes from the field—maybe the wind. But for the mice it’s a night like any summer night. Fruit and grain: a time of abundance. Nobody dies, nobody goes hungry. No sound except the roar of the wheat. 
—Louise Glück, “Abundance”Art Credit Adrià Cañameras

A cool wind blows on summer evenings, stirring the wheat. 
The wheat bends, the leaves of the peach trees 
rustle in the night ahead. 

In the dark, a boy’s crossing the field: 
for the first time, he’s touched a girl 
so he walks home a man, with a man’s hungers. 

Slowly the fruit ripens— 
baskets and baskets from a single tree 
so some rots every year 
and for a few weeks there’s too much: 
before and after, nothing. 

Between the rows of wheat 
you can see the mice, flashing and scurrying 
across the earth, though the wheat towers above them, 
churning as the summer wind blows. 

The moon is full. A strange sound 
comes from the field—maybe the wind. 

But for the mice it’s a night like any summer night. 
Fruit and grain: a time of abundance. 
Nobody dies, nobody goes hungry. 

No sound except the roar of the wheat. 

Louise Glück, “Abundance”
Art Credit Adrià Cañameras

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