I dreamed I was a hop plant in a field of silence

I stood in a field so still the wind forgot to blow. No bees, no birds—just me, stretching toward a sky that didn’t care. The kid who took over the farm walked past once, looked up, and said nothing. I felt the weight of every frost I’d never survive. Then I woke up and remembered: real hops don’t dream. Only people do. And even then, only when they’re tired.