The fields exhale as if it’s a contest, a mini-tornado like intense game of back and forth blows.
Their breaths chap the skin, making humans guard their faces and shield their bodies.
In the country, though, the howls meet in the middle: Interstate 29, where cars cruise the fastest and crash the hardest.
The winds push the cars to the left. They howl the vehicles to the right. How quick and how drastic the vehicles dart depends on the size of the ride and the control of the driver. But, no matter how big the vehicle, when the driver lifts his hands off the controls, the fields make their move – whistling the motors to the rumbling strips.
You’re aware now – of the strips and of the howls, how intense they feel and how much damage they could cause. You pledge to keep both hands on the controls, or at least just one, at all times.
Still, the fields persist, apparently upset over this prolonged winter that has brought temperatures in the 20s when they should be in the 40s.
Spring: Is it near? The fields do not know, nor do they care. Their corn has been stripped, their beans have been picked. And now they wait, for a time when the howling will stop, when the sun will shine and when the corn will rise again from their dirt and when the beans will crowd their soil.
People will saunter about the fields, and the fields will no longer shout and scream.
Spring: When the fields will rest.
Until then, drive carefully.