
Dirt for KickingThe fantasy subsides. Oh Lord, the man that fell. To dirt, to a patch of drying, shifted ground nearest a wooden tract and nothing where barking wind and that pine rot stink, they never quite die out.
Widow woman is dragging her feet, digging little, jagged lines in the earth with her worn out, black shoes. You can feel her trembling breaths, see her low-closed, dripping eyes. But did you ever think about the white, wheezing cradle bowing, forth and back, without a hand? Can't you taste her fear, grandmother screaming A rock is all that man is now! Child, let it go! A stone really, she thought, being covered by the dead needl Dirt for Kicking by ~glen
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