From Interview With a Farmer
All works copyright (c) 1999 by Robert Chappell
Interview With a Farmer
His hands are meaty and rough; holding up a finger
and thumb, "That much fat," complaining of store-bought
chickens. "But Christ, you get a coupla chicks,
for a buck or two a piece, and raise 'em up, there ain't
no fat on grass-fed chickens. Or free-range chickens, I guess that's
what grass-fed chickens are called now. But boy,
they make a good supper." He nods, his breath a white cloud, the color
of the sky and the salt caked on his truck. "Bit warmer 'n
yesterday I think," lumbering toward the wood pile.
"Still damn cold though," with a thick frosty laugh.
Dingy snow packed into ice forms a trail
for his heavy feet. Three logs on one arm, bare
red fingers gripping another by the end,
"Wood heat's a pain in the ass. But it's cheap. And I want
my boy," with a nod toward the house, "to learn to appreciate where heat
comes from. Don't just come from turning on a switch."
The wood-chute echoes the distinctive hollow sound
of falling logs. Snow creaks beneath his feet; his eyes
stay low. The walk to the wood-pile is short but slow.
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