I came in over the fence they built to keep me out, and it does not keep me out, nothing does, and there they were: thousands of them pressed into a field, all facing one direction, all lifting at once when the noise from the tall black towers hits them in the chest.
I stole a little of that noise and dropped it in the parking lot, where a man leaning on his car heard three seconds of a song he will never place again.
I do the work they don't know they need. I dry the sweat off the back of a girl's neck between her braids. I carry the smell of frying dough from the far tents to the front row, and someone's stomach turns over and they don't know why. I lift the dust off ten thousand stamping feet and hold it up in the last of the light so it glows, and they point, and someone says look, and I am already gone past them.
They are so anchored. Wristbands they will not cut off for weeks. A blanket claimed with four shoes at the corners, a small country with borders. Somebody kept a ticket stub in a zipped pocket like it might blow away, like I would want it.
I picked up a boy's whispered thing meant only for the girl beside him, three words under the bass, and I set it down half a field away in the ear of a stranger who smiled at nothing. I did not mean to carry it. I never mean to.
I was already at the tree line, taking the sound of them singing with me, spending it on an empty road they'll never drive.