Eighty Acres
Ahead of me walks a woman who knows the things I want to know about living, about
happiness, about contentment.
She went in. Wet corn. Blue bandana.
"See those," she said, turning around, waiting for me to catch up.
"Those are deer tracks and we're goin' to follow 'em to see where they ate this morning"
We came to a circle at the side of the field, near the woods, the stalks bent and ears
munched on.
She stooped and picked up an ear that had erupted black from its husk.
"Smut," she said, "No wonder they didn't eat it. Too much rain."
Her living is proved in her deep wrinkles and bulging blue veins.
I want this, this contentment, this living. Soon.
"Just look and watch everything and you'll learn. Notice what's under the sky."
Yet step after step goes by while I watch her heels rise and fall in the mud in front of me.
I plant my feet into her rhythm, to the rhythm of the rows.
Left
Right
Left
-sara renee beaver