there's a rift in that field
that just gets deeper and deeper.

and it's not a sink hole.

and it's not a creek bed.

and it's not a drainage ditch.

an old man dug it.

i've seen him.
he lives nearby, across the river.
he comes to that field every night and digs
for hours on end.

his eyes are rimmed with red skin
and he's been digging in that same spot for as long as i can remember.

if you ask him why he's digging,
he'll tell you:
right there in that very spot.

and then he'll go back to digging.

digging on his X.

and the sad thing is,
everyone knows there's nothing there. 
it's just a field.

the neighbors, the police, the passer-bys...
we've all looked at it a million times.

it's just a field.

nothing above
and nothing underneath.

there is no X.