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 transistor radio.

    She hands me the scythe.