Moon's high now, dogs barking at shadows

From: P.S., Punjab fields
2 a.m. under harvest moon, tractor idling nearby

Veer,

The fields are silver tonight, wheat stubble sharp underfoot like accusations. I walked from the tubewell, radio crackling old Sufi qawwalis from All India—Bulleh Shah reminding me we're all lost souls anyway.

That night we drove the tractor to Amritsar, wind whipping our faces, talking Punjab bigger than these fields—cricket stardom, city lights, girls who wouldn't look twice at farmers' sons. You left for Canada last monsoon. I stayed, hands in soil that doesn't dream.

Moon's high now, dogs barking at shadows. A truck rumbled past on the highway, headlights cutting the dark like your goodbye wave. Do you still play gatta-gat in some snowy gurdwara? Do the fields miss you like I do?

Send a thought on the wind, brother. Or come back when harvest's done—we'll drive again.

From the stubble,
P.S.