Kin

for Willis Jones

Yellow moon midnight high,
full and moving
above August fields, corn dense,
sloping to our pasture fence
and Brown Swiss tied,
still, one eye open,
the cow listening with expectation
to quick steps, barefoot walking,
two sisters softly stalking,
skin to husks, silk within–
whisper, whisper,
swish, swish, swish,
young hands brushing leaves aside,
through the rows at night
naked figures gently glide
and emerge, pails glimmering,
at the edge of hard times.
Silent, hidden nearby, Uncle and I
crouch in dark greenness
on damp earth; uncovering
the mystery of missing milk,
we continued to go without
during those mornings
deep in the Depression.

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