by Jim Richards
Well, what would you do, Father, if sinking your shovel into a potato field you struck metal, and bending down you uncovered a sword, crumbling with rust? And you've got sweat burning your eyes when you see this man, and somehow you know he's left-handed and he's got a scar under his eye real shiny pink, like a pig's snout. I'm thinking "does he want this sword or what?" so I drop it and go back to digging— I've got kids, you know, two sons and a daughter, Kate. Anyway, I turn a few more piles of earth and the heat is coming down real hard when I find another sword, so heavy I can't lift it. And "what time is it?" I'm thinking as I squint at the sun and see some giant-sized man with hair like fur and real small ears. So small, I know he can't hear the screams, Thousands of them , buried so long they're black from reflecting the earth. What would you do, press a blade to your ear and listen for the roar? Would you look up to see who was watching? No Sir. When everything has gone to dust except lingering blades that can't resurrect, like spirits stuck somewhere between hell-fire and the sun, you bury them, Father, beneath the mounds of the quiet earth and walk away.
