Eric Chisler

The Red Dirt

Fine-pointed charcoal sank into the earth once more and the satisfying grind of hardened wood on red dirt filled up the silence of morning. Too much clay, I thought for maybe the thousandth time. Or the ten thousandth. Besides, who bothered counting anything anymore? Rhythmic, the grinding rose again from the ruddy clay and I could almost make out the faint sound of flint corn falling into the fresh depression. What I wouldn’t give for a single bean and the ancient sight of its tendrils curling around the corn stock come late summer; but we buried the last of the seed the same season we buried her.