Bluegrass

Some November day a train of blackbirds rides a track of wind,
silently hovering, almost still in the air above
and takes the time that God allows to scan the ground for food.

I sit on haunches near the earth where we buried our dogs gathering bent blades of bluegrass,
praying away Sunday.

Mam stands at the broken window staring beyond the fence, past me and into the graying field that crawls into a sky
just as singularly gray.

Her attention then stolen by the faint goodbye whispered behind her with vomit soaked sound.

Splinters in the pane
On the field, a crow landing
Shattered, we both hum

the way Papaw breathed...

the labor in his voice...

the coal under his black thumbs...

Stretching my knees, I go inside for supper to find Papaw's door shut, Mam all alone, and the tin roof leaking.

The rhythm of drops seems peculiar.

With her fingers on my head Mam tries to speak but feels the thought leave her hand too numb.

Instead, she reaches for Papaw's pickaxe and places it purposefully beside the closed door.

A ghost, earthly worn,
standing guard the miner's bed
holding all at bay

Not minding that the clouds have formed a veil on the darkening fields, I go back outside and cry.