THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN DIED, THE CHILDREN OF NEW HAMPSHIRE ARE STARVING
I wonder why the farmer chews fat, muttering about the damn Chinese beetles this season and is the damn corn ever gonna get around to growing? I wonder, following intently, if a dog barking a few yards over is haunted. He isn't, I surmise. "It's a real dust bowl out there," the farmer says, "We need the rain. I wonder when the old girl will yield." The man next to him says it's supposed to rain in a week, but who knows really. "I heard Thursday," the farmer says, and suddenly I am wondering where grows such appetite that small talk is urgent talk. I see what he is wearing, this farmer: real work boots, sturdy jeans, dirt stains, and a rough leather frock, skinned off generations waging war with the sky and still lined with tools. Examining my own attire, I see I am dressed for the grand choir of some momentous moment and now I am no longer wondering anything except if my face will be washed out in the lights.