Grinding between third and fourth, the tractor dry heaved. I said y’uns instead of y’all, Dad shouting from the hay wagon, invoking God and the flat tar, the groundhog hole I didn’t clear, rain threatening to ruin the alfalfa we rolled into rows for the baler. Dad’s trash pit plumed charcoal over us and the narrow holler field. Sparrows and starlings circled, only crows went through. They know, Dad said. The pit’s far could handle cherubs weeping. It burned for days, a small star swaddled in silica and fertilizer bags. I could handle the switch cut from the crick maple with Dad’s pocket knife, leaves stripped by his calloused hand. I thought of seraphim as he approached, and the tractor died. …
Ben Kline
The white van lurched into my path, …