Page 20
(Told in Grandmother Ella’s voice)
We were villagers in the icy fields of
Often we hoped that the Great Depression wouldn’t last,
that the trains our men ran would again coal up.
We were also a bone-cold blanket of snow, a yearning
for warmer weather.
We watched for deer, snagged them off season,
snowy buttons of blood
disappearing into thickets. Your hungry eye fired no qualms;
kettles of venison-stew would get us through.
One of us waved at the conductor when finally the trains
began their runs—he flagged us off track.
It was hard winter back then. Tell your kids they’re lucky.
Tell them now we kill game in other lands.