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, wardrobes and rooms open 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 Brylcreem 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. ~~~~ edit