The earth here is dry. In this place the air burns my throat, scratching it in protest at being drawn out of this wide, open space. So flat and constant, the land seems to go on forever. Fields of yellow and brown, a prairie as wide as the sea.
Then my eyes meet the horizon. Sharply, interrupting the monotony of the landscape, it appears. I blink, shaken by its presence. My eyes are drawn to it like a moth to a flame. The contrast it provides next to the softly undulating fields of wheat is astonishing.
They say that in this place you can watch your dog run away from home for three days. I did. Not my dog, but others. I watched them as they drove away from here, getting smaller and smaller until they were but a pinprick of colour under the immense sky, and finally, as they crossed that intangible line, and dropped off the edge of the world.
Sitting here, on the peeling paint of the back porch, I can easily imagine the edge of the world. Looking at the horizon leaves little doubt that it is fine and sharp and lethal as the blade of a knife. Of course, I know there is something beyond it. The land continues on past the reach of these fields. But, in the face of something as concrete as this image before me, it is quite easy to picture oneself falling into empty space.
My fingernails dig into the soft wood of the back steps, searching for grooves in which to anchor themselves against the pull of emptiness that emanates from that imagined abyss. The insidious prairie wind swirls past me, cooling my face, but leaving my skin papery and chapped.
Overhead looms a flawless sky. Free of clouds, unobscured by the branches of trees, it stretches, unchallenged, from one horizon to the next in a great dome. With this perfection comes a silence, strained and oppressive and deafening.
The horizon stares at me, calling me forward. Its beckoning is nearly impossible to ignore in this dreadful silence.
It whispers to me, dredging up thoughts long since buried in the deepest recesses of my mind. My eyes sweep back and forth, frantically searching the plain for somewhere to hide, but there is nothing. No trees, not even a scrubby bush to hide behind. Here, nothing exists that can shield my mind from this onslaught. I shut my eyes, but the knife's blade is etched in the backs of my eyelids. I can see the precipice clearly, the dark rushes up to meet me; my eyes snap open. Who knows what lurks behind that inky veil, outside the reach of this perfect blue dome? The darkness can hold anything.
The open emptiness of this silent sky presses in around me until I can no longer bear it. I rise to my feet, and, for a moment, imagine running, full tilt, into the unknown. Then I turn, and shuffle back into the empty kitchen.