Sycamore

Abstract

Across the Fork Field stood the grey ghost of the giant sycamore. You could see it even in the black night, standing gaunt, alone, seeing whatever Giant Sycamores see in the night. Down Redbird River a piece was the swimming hole, the dusty path Through the new corn, chalked out in the August sun. Down around the feet of the Sycamore was the canebreak, pushed back By the plows and fires of countless farmers who strove to claim the land.