Blue Field
by Sybil P. Estess

The day I sat down among someone's field
of bluebonnets in Texas last April was a Friday

near a place named "Roundtop." That clear air
was mostly like any other late in that month

that year. Yet I was there where mostly I am not.
I was aware I was there, mindful of flawless blue

blooming by me. A consummate friend smiled, posed
the two of us in the color: all blue as far as you

cared to hope or could see. Nothing else like her camera's
crowning click could be in Texas this spring, like this

lack of daily task. Then when my friend and I ate
late lunch at the Roundtop Cafe there where the butter

was good but the waiter too fat, we were back into
our fact. We both checked our watches that would not

stop as we wished. . . . But before, we split fish with
no conflict. Fried fresh, better than we had wished

it could be. Better by far our hour, our day, the way,
a blue field. . . .

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