The fields are greening now, alfalfa and timothy back from stubble, spring barley spears bright in the soil. Eastward, on slopes near the stackyard the rock pile rises with its accumulations -- sparse grasses grown in after decades. We hoisted them after plowing from their unearthed places into light and the creaking wagon, learned the discordant pitch of their clatter when planks were pulled loose to unload, rock-picking the worst work of all.
I think of them now as stones, sensory to absence. There are settlements between us: scattered creamcups appear in the grass clods among them, words deep in me speak as the stones speak to stones speak to stones.