to see something. "Look, Daddy, a butterfly."
Swallowtail flits up in the light, the boy smiles
at him. "It was drinking this pink flower." Nods
and says, "Let's keep moving, we've got a ways to go. "
Yes, there's no better land anywhere. Henry plans
to turn over the farm to his boy one day, but maybe
Billy ought not to farm, no money in it. Hateful
what the world's become, lot of crooks running things.
If
he sells up they'll just turn his farm into
a development. But what if he was forced to? Why,
Granddaddy'd climb out of his grave and knock him
cockeyed. Six generations on this farm. Well,
he probably won't have to. A redtail hawk floats
overhead. There. A likely stump to shoot at -
but where's Billy? Oh. Running up and holding out
a little bunch of wildflowers. "Here, Daddy, I picked
these for you." Billy's face changes when he stares
at him. "We don't have time for those, Son." Boy bites
his lip, looks down at the flowers. Henry has to choke
back the temptation
to
get mad, knows he shouldn't,
but, God, he doesn 't want his son to turn out like that.
Life is hard enough and he cares for this boy more
than he knows how to say. "Here, Son, let's get some
practice with your gun." Bends down and takes it,
Squats behind the boy. "Hold it like this." Stimy.
"See that stump?" No answer. Then Billy turns around:
"Daddy?
I'm
scared." Their eyes lock. Who is more afraid?
In
deep distance, a short blast from a train whistle,
the rush of eastbound wheels on steel, a gleam of light
across the miles; and the gritty taste of disappointment.)
