Another Story

In a country churchyard, two workmen

were digging a grave. It was summer,

but cool in the cedar-blue shade

of the white clapboard church where they labored.

Their picks did all of the talking.

Beyond them, a field of tall corn

glittered with heat, and above, a lone bird

rose on the air like an ash.

The grave grew slowly down

and out of the world, and the world rolled

under the work. Then the men stopped.

One stooped to scrape in the clay.

When he stood, light-headed,

swaying a little, he held in his hand

an old cowbell, covered with dirt

and packed with darkness.

He scraped out the earth with his knife.

The bell had no clapper. He shook it.

A meadowlark piped on a fence post.

In the distance, a feeder thunked.

He handed it across the grave

to the younger man, who held it in his hands

like a baby bird, then rang it tenderly.

A crow cawed in a cedar top.

He rang it again. On the highway,

a mile away, a semi trumpeted.

In the cornfield, an irrigation pump

thumped with a regular heartbeat.

He handed it back to the older man,

who set it aside. All afternoon,

they worked without a word between them.

At intervals each touched the empty bell.