A night machine makes circles in the field.
It seems to be made of hundreds of headlights,
a square of lights winding through the even
stalks. When the machine turns off,
the field goes black. There is nothing to see.

The mind scrambles, and says to itself:

I’ve seen a raven and sea eagles
and a great variety of mountain berries.
Once the white dog Shiba came home
pink from tyttebær juice. She had rolled in them.

I wait for the machine to appear again in the field—
what was it harvesting at night,
anyway?

Rebecca Dinerstein, “Blank Harvest”, in Lofoten