The Meadow 115 Out Here in the Country Mark Sanders the television is a big rock adorning an old shelf, and the radio in the work shed plays some country song heard a million times though the words are indecipherable. The real tune is the traffic on the farm road, a quarter mile off, akin to the occasional bee that hums the balm, and the news is horses trodding and crossing paths carved through grass, the chitter of scissortails and mockingbirds, echo of absence down the slope to the creek bottom. The cattle across the way are where they need to be, murmuring; oaks and pines, where they need to be, buffering encroachment. Clouds where they need to be, sitting and catching their breaths before gamboling away. The fence that needs repair—whine and barb Enough. Let the world dissolve, I might not even know.
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy ODQ3NA==