Rock pile

The fields are greening now, alfalfa and timothy back from stubble, spring barley spears bright in the soil. Eastward, on slopes near the stackyard the rock pile rises with its accumulations -- sparse grasses grown in after decades. We hoisted them after plowing from their unearthed places into light and the creaking wagon, learned the discordant pitch of their clatter when planks were pulled loose to unload, rock-picking the worst work of all.

I think of them now as stones, sensory to absence. There are settlements between us: scattered creamcups appear in the grass clods among them, words deep in me speak as the stones speak to stones speak to stones.

About these ads
Sponsored Content by LockerDome

We want to hear, did we miss an angle we should have covered? Should we come back to this topic? Or just give us a rating for this story. We want to hear from you.

Loading...

Loading...

Loading...

Save for later

Save
Cancel

Saved ( of items)

This item has been saved to read later from any device.
Access saved items through your user name at the top of the page.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You reached the limit of 20 saved items.
Please visit following link to manage you saved items.

View Saved Items

OK

Failed to save

You have already saved this item.

View Saved Items

OK