Splintered, dusty as the Farm-All that dragged it, the stone boat lurched across what would be new pasture. We kids stumbled behind over slick hummocks, heaving every movable rock onto that moving raft. Our hauls became walls. Generations of heavy cows plod and crop.
Hail hammers a softening anvil.
Ants and worms compost. And there rise fingers of rich green. One still fresh enough to draw flies. Perfume of clover and wild roses. The old corduroy wagon road from the Rush shows itself in copper-stained bits of rotting timber.