There wasn’t one grass blade higher than another
in his yard. Not one fleck of red paint peeling
on the barn or any other shed; the white trim,
bright. And when one morning, early,
he went out into the barn, and made an end
with his gun, he fell on the straw where any
blood puddle could easily be hefted
with a pitchfork and carried out.


© 2006 by Sharon Chmielarz. All rights reserved.