The Field

You saw mist hanging low
as if morning were reluctant
to go. You saw the confused
muddle of grasses soaking wet
as autumn began to dominate
the field. There were yellows, yes;
but dusty lime, yes, lime and russet;
chalky dun halfway to white
and taupe; deep clay puce, yes,
borrowed from distant steppes;
pale orange; lenient waxy blue—
a pallor of drabs not yet abandoned
by the dew. It rained.
You heard through an open window
and touched its casement. 
You should have shut the window
and you should not look so long
at the field. Turn away. Withdraw.
You see, the field wants nothing
to do with you. Nothing at all.