Rural Ghosts

The chirr of parched insect wings – bible dust preaching from long abandoned boots. Baked into the sky, homesteads linger on the burnt stumps of exhausted summers. Dander creaks on dry porches. Fallow rooms open wardrobes in a denim haze. Homesteaders planted a light here, then at days end, dug it up in earthen mouthfuls. Aprons were filled, table-tops charged. Out of the back of a model T a dapper man sells brushes, he speaks of things unfarmed, the Brylcream shine of city sights until she is swept away. Such moments go unrecorded unless by chance you find a strand of long hair whipping astray on a skewed field gate.