In the middle of every field，

    obscured from the side by grass

    or cornhusks， is a clearing where

    she works burying swans alive

    into the black earth. She only

    buries their bodies， their wings.

    She packs the dirt tight around

    their noodle necks & they shake

    like long eyelashes in a hurricane.

    She makes me feed them by hand

    twice a day for one full year： grain，

    bits of chopped fish. Then she

    takes me to the tin toolshed.

    Again she shows me the world

    inside her silver transistor¹ radio.

    She hands me the scythe².