Kennebecs and Tomatoes

Ah, that first year – when we still imaginedour sustenance – those first kennebecs,huge in the manure field, papered like birch,soft as creamed cheese. Dave’s mom planted there, but she was dead.He asked only a smidge of harvestfor the plot, new turned from blackand hereford compacted absence. And maybe he tasted his mother’s apron.Maybe he […]

Plainsong #2 – a pastoral

Herefords lying down, asses to the wind – this bodes of rain. Cloud gray and anvil, clobber shot and some ways off, a cliff falls precipitous. There’s manure in the air because it’s November and the harvest is in. There’s manure in the air for the fields need a feed before snow tangles the greeds […]

A Harvest Rushed

Russet clouds of harvest dust run low in the gully, settle in the sand pits, settle on a tongue and choke the throats of a damp fall. And there, below the drying towers, propane men wink into ledgers, as the combines churn on – the grains still plump – stalk still green at the soils, […]