New EnglandKim Roberts
We ploughed the fields four times before we could plant seeds: harvesting rocks, rocks like grey potatoes sheathed in dirt and larger rocks that chipped the teeth of all our tools. Season after season we arrayed them in straight lines, tried to tame them, laying stone atop stone in the old way, to make walls: no mortar, so they could breathe in freeze or thaw and hold their balance and still they came, more, working toward the light, tunneling through the soil, until we gave ourselves over to stone, and still they came, congregating as if our fields were church and they were the apostles of the first stone. The land worked us, not the reverse, and gravel entered our blood. We learned to watch for them all the time, to be vigilant, to think in the rock language until everything was rock, until we ourselves became part stone.
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