They come tumbling out on stilts, round and economical, and get out their rakes. Gather where the wave of long grass breaks and get to work. Mine for worms, get paid piece-rate. Converse about the take. Observe the fall of rain and wait for softer dirt. Eat the world. Go in face-first. Pick out what has worth and leave the rest to molder. Triangulate. Keep a sister at one shoulder and the sanctuary near at hand. Depend on something taller. When the sun breaks out and golden bell sags through the fence, gorge on flowers. Do what makes sense.
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This reminds me in spirt/ simplicity/images of
Ireland's most beloved poem which is sort of about potatoes.
‘When all the others were away at Mass."-Seamus Heaney (Nobel Prize)
This is excellent! The rhythm of it is so chicken-y.