The Farm

The Farm © Fields of mustard sway in a light breeze off the river farm dogs return dusted in yellow the clapboard gray of the farmhouse weeps old memories generations of pea farmers, hunters, fishermen and cooks heady fragrance of cooking food saturate the senses as the screen door slaps shut the matriarch sings out ‘tea party! and the city folk sit ‘round a table laden with baked chicken that was pecking out a meal in the yard that day fried venison steak and mashed potato green beans and corn hanging from the vine just minutes ago her biscuits and cornbread; the stuff dreams are made of Later they sit on the warped porch steps listening as the geese honk their way in to the seed rich fields and their nightly respite bats fly across the moon, frogs call out their secrets, a loon wails its loneliness old stories are told Trisha Sugarek Moths and Machetes