When heat visibly wavers over our truck hood, we feel like puddles, our skin as thin as a frog’s. From the broom sage, the rattle of katydids ripples through us. I remember first feeling sound Subscribe to read the full text.
With chainsaw and sling-blade, we felled pines and hickory, zinged away brier and poke. Together we string our squarings. Dig in with auger, rock-bar, and shovel. Dig to embed Subscribe to read the full text.