Here, in 1970, draft papers in hand, my father’s father begged the trigger of a .22 to blast a small piece of his son’s foot into the hillside so he would not leave the mountains to fight jungle communists. My father. His father. The gun. Gun of worn wood and…
Imagine it: unblessed blowing free, discovering electricity.
The season turned them out on their heads. The kids flicked butts at the tipple and tracks, with Waylon on the radio, shirtsleeves cut free, and blew through quick as pick-ups slipping
Eighth grader, older cousin, clicks her cheek and kicks the soft flank lightly; we jolt forward faster than breath. I’m crushed between her grip on the horn, hand on the reins
This was the summer after the winter the coal stoves of our neighbors upwind dropped flocks of commas on the parable snow. Noon crickets slept. The wind abandoned August and our trailer—that’s when voices lulled me back, pressed my face to a split-glass
Rivendell Now that summer days enlarge under the green screen doors, what if to-morrow borrows a month, a year?
After work, through the evening until the TV was but a ﬂicker in the night window, Daddy would line them up across the table.
for Tony Earley and after his fashion I’ve determined the quiet beauty of things is what I hearken to, the grace of a papery butterﬂy tipping over the purple frill at the tops of ironweed, the ﬁeld splayed up the hill and misty, the end of summer. Nothing like…
Hindman, Kentucky, November 18, 2012 Standing beside the tree invites belief, my spirit or soul answers an easy or crazy waving leaf, or even a motionless leaf, even in winter the stark unmoving branch
Hay roll tractor totters around the slope like an old farmer in a hat leaning on the setting sun turning slowly to follow long brown trails of raked hay.