Churched

SplitShire, "Country Road," 2014

On a Sunday, as the clouds drop low, so do we. In
a car, on a road, out of sight of ourselves as we look
around the bend, say a wordless prayer under our
breath for a vulture lying dead in the turn lane, one
wing caught by the wind and beckoning. Churches
every mile or so, little wooden buildings with sharp
steeples, bigger brick buildings draped with vinyl
banners proclaiming good news, or a fish fry. Right
before the turn-off, along the right-of-way, a man
sits on the high green seat of a tractor in his Sunday
best, mowing before the rain comes down, mowing
in fresh-pressed slacks, suspenders, and a bow tie.
Nature is chaos with no hand on a rotary mower—
his hand puts the world into a syntax he can speak.