| OCR Text |
Show LATE NOVEMBER All day pinecones drop like shot birds off the tree limbs, the tea kettle sings from the iron stove...from under the leaf-mold, winter's stain spreads like kerosene. The cattle stop to watch us on our sunset walks, ice-glitter sputtering in the pine-tops and gullies, the house windows flaming just once and going out. Our eyes have begun to deceive us now, as if the heart can't stand the strain of the earth, as if the ice age had begun its heave and the longnecks arcing overhead each evening were calling back some other season, calling back to us, and that dying fire in the trees. |
