The Stone Pickers

Kansas -- March 1945

Vivian scrapes the mud
from the back stoop.
It's spring at last, the yard soft,
the new wheat vivid.
In the back field, men
are picking rock -- the land's
first crop, and most faithful.

They pile stones in the boggy ditch
and a pair of blackbirds
swings into the sky,
crying and crying.

Handsome feathers and bright
shoulders like dress uniforms.
(Polished shoes swing from the black car -- )

The telegram in her pocket
has worn to softness
and begins to tear.
The stone pickers
are German, she knows,
POWs. She thinks
this is their only crop,
their seed, their harvest --
this heap of stone.

__________

A revision of an existing poem from Ghost Maps. Yeah, I know, I need to put Ghost Maps away and not make unrequested revisions. But I think I've fixed the awkward middle section. And I do like those shoes. Have wanted to use them for a while. Seeing the Matrix today was only catalyst -- though embarassing catalyst, I admit.