Outskirts of Shaker
Past the barns, past the cemetery, Westward from the village. Many traveled,never to return.
Rising
Wendell Berry
Having danced until nearly
time to get up, I went on
in the harvest, half lame
with weariness. And he
took no notice, and made
no mention of my distress.
He went ahead, assuming
that I would follow. I followed,
dizzy, half blind, bitter
with sweat in the hot light.
He never turned his head,
a man well known by his back
in those fields in these days.
He led me through long rows
of misery, moving like a dancer
ahead of me, so elated
he was, and able, filled
with desire for the ground’s growth.
We came finally to the high
still heat of four o clock,
a long time before sleep.
And then he stood by me
and looked, so that my own head
uttered his judgement, even
his laughter. He only said:
“That social life don’t get
down the row, does it, boy?”
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