And what of the farmer who exposes his genitalia again. The secret entrance in his overalls dropping like a half-hinged cellar door. Long Johns long gone. His posture is granite; his face is slate—like posing for a picture beside a prized heifer. Pitchfork parallel to his fist. Steadfast. Puncturing the moon. Long nights nestled between cornfields and cottontails can be lonely. The slow churn of butter at dawn can only give a man so much. Porch lanterns highlight his silhouette. Stars shine brightest in the Midwest. He scores his own soundtrack. Melodies like tractor tilling soil, like scarecrows snoring on the job, like not making love. And what of the Mrs.? He is a decent man. Can’t even make moonshine. And what of the hungry fox that sneaks into the henhouse leaving only feathers, beaks, feet. And what of the tornado that rips newborns from their mothers’ arms. And what of the midnight concerto from two dozen crickets, letting him know, they’ve been there before.
(Originally published in Scythe.)