From a Shawnee Burial

Empty a year, its pottery and bone in a Cincinnati museum, the burial mound is still a place to play King of the Mountain or watch for shooting stars. I used to lie here and whisper my own prayers to the night. Now I plow it level with the ground for the few extra dollars its space will bring.

* * *

I’m the extra weight riding atop the tiller to make the blades cut deep. Waves of winter wheat churn behind me, last year’s crop plowed under to fertilize the field.

* * *

Evening’s warm breath ripples across timothy and vetch. I sit on the hill near the barn, the moon a cocoon hanging in the sky. Light from some satellite draws its line along a starry map, reminding me the moon conceals nothing living and the Shawnee knew nothing to be dead.

* * *

I slide down from the baler and breathe in what vetch breathes out. Lightning bugs flash like sparks from a whetstone. Around me, round bales dot the field like bent-backed threshers of a century ago still married to their work.

* * *

At dusk I walk the disked field hoping for arrowheads, but the world has given all it can give. Crows fly low over furrows, shadows above shadows, their beaks opened wide as if swallowing the light. No matter how far I walk tonight, the footprints I brand on the frost will lead me back home.