Thursday, January 28, 2010
Rags and Bones
When I write, I still think in terms of acres and rows, shovels, shears, and plows. Early in the morning, I hear voices in the barn, see ghosts by the well. Sometimes, when a whole day goes by and all I’ve done is broken up some good dry kindling, I think of my old man, who once said farming is what I was meant to do. I think of his old man, too. Some things, like love, you never do outgrow. Farming for the art of it. The need to sweat. The smell of open ground. It’s all rags and bones, I know. Then evening calls and the birds all settle in. Leaves. I hear them whispering, by the thousands.
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