Ain’t No Commies ‘Round Here
“At my feet, the winter grass was yellow and bent. Some, like Maureen, might call its color dead, but it reminded me of the cow’s salt lick after it had been in the fields for a while, sides curved by the flat, black tongues of cows. I studied my hands holding the poster board, hatch-marked with thin scratches, impatient when I wouldn’t wait to find my chambray gloves in all the clutter in the feed room and tore at the brambles bare-handed . . . There were some things about myself could stand changing.”
“Ain’t No Commies ‘Round Here”