The Moth Man

The headlights of a tractor drew my great-grandfather to his death. Anglerfish of steel, power take-off a maddening buzz – Was the barn dark? Could he see the terrible twisting machine? And did he see it, in the instant before the ordeal The forty days’ hellish road ahead before he reached heaven? Did the lonesome valley stretch out before him in the gleam of the wrenching clamor, And did he lean out and see the glow at its end? Shriek and wail, slam and crunch. Did the dying man see far? And would it have been better, after all, to know what would be coming? From plowshare to fig tree such a divide, better not to know, I think. Certainly better for my uncle, who found him there.