South of San Ardo
I have stopped at San Miguel
south of San Ardo
surveying the grassless hills
as the nodding mules pump
globs of oil from flat basins,
old pebbled washouts nearby.
A cemetery stands on a hill
by the rusted oil pumps
and greased irrigation valves,
crosses gray, tombstones pitted.
Where nothing but industry
moves, life is dead.
One woman delivers flowers
that wilt in the hour.
I have wandered the fields
of Nipomo looking at vegetation
and stooped workers wearing broad hats
to protect their anonymous faces
from the sun. These are towns
of humility, where weather
and available work have forced
everyone into a common kneeling,
where weather has little mercy
and works earn no salvation.
What must I do?
I kneel, listen to my low murmur
of confession, Above the insects
zing, chitter, clack
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California. He has contributed to Story Sanctum, River Styx, and previously to Piker Press. He has a book from Sheila-Na-Gig, The Root Endures.
I have stopped at San Miguel
south of San Ardo
surveying the grassless hills
as the nodding mules pump
globs of oil from flat basins,
old pebbled washouts nearby.
A cemetery stands on a hill
by the rusted oil pumps
and greased irrigation valves,
crosses gray, tombstones pitted.
Where nothing but industry
moves, life is dead.
One woman delivers flowers
that wilt in the hour.
I have wandered the fields
of Nipomo looking at vegetation
and stooped workers wearing broad hats
to protect their anonymous faces
from the sun. These are towns
of humility, where weather
and available work have forced
everyone into a common kneeling,
where weather has little mercy
and works earn no salvation.
What must I do?
I kneel, listen to my low murmur
of confession, Above the insects
zing, chitter, clack
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California. He has contributed to Story Sanctum, River Styx, and previously to Piker Press. He has a book from Sheila-Na-Gig, The Root Endures.
