Jacket Weather
It was jacket weather.
The half & half cold
of autumn, not of spring.
The heat of the day
still palpable in
the rustle
of tall oak trees
against the encapsulating night.
Invading the space between objects,
a definition of endless darkness
lined each old oak tree,
each Chevrolet, each Ford truck,
each farmer, each mill worker,
each brick, each small town house;
the school on the ridge,
each dark yard and bush,
each column of smoking leaves,
each surviving moth flying in
football lights, each and every
object, and each child
venturing into the eternal night.
The town and country
emptied itself, abandoning
fields, homes, and stores;
coming into the night
into the bowl
at the bottom of the hill.
Twelve long concrete flights
of steps and landings
traverse the darkness,
descending the terraced hill
into the heatless field
of football honor.
Coming in cars and trucks
they lined the Fleur de Lis
sitting in heated living rooms
watching drive-in theater
racing back and forth
stopped only by hot chocolate
and coffee, the marching band,
errors of offense and defense,
passing conversations with familiars,
the cheers of the crowds,
and the intense watching
of those standing
at the fence.
Too young to pay,
we passed,
running up and down
the steps, in and out
of the light, back
and forth darting shadows;
minnows flashing
across the creek
outlining the limits
of the football meadow.
At the top of the hill
hidden in silhouettes
against the old brick school;
the children ran
under the tall oak trees
no longer in shadow
but deep into
the night.
‘Too young for you,’
they said,
these old men in
jeans, flattops,
and flannel shirts.
And all I saw
were dark wide eyes,
red lips blackened by night,
and a face,
expressionless and white
like the wooden sides
of the Baptist Church.
She went with them
into that night,
screened ‘round
by close wide trunks of oak,
the tall dark school,
and crest of
rancorous hill.
Graves Crossing
August 21, 2004
Greenfield Series
©2004 Jacket Weather — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
The half & half cold
of autumn, not of spring.
The heat of the day
still palpable in
the rustle
of tall oak trees
against the encapsulating night.
Invading the space between objects,
a definition of endless darkness
lined each old oak tree,
each Chevrolet, each Ford truck,
each farmer, each mill worker,
each brick, each small town house;
the school on the ridge,
each dark yard and bush,
each column of smoking leaves,
each surviving moth flying in
football lights, each and every
object, and each child
venturing into the eternal night.
The town and country
emptied itself, abandoning
fields, homes, and stores;
coming into the night
into the bowl
at the bottom of the hill.
Twelve long concrete flights
of steps and landings
traverse the darkness,
descending the terraced hill
into the heatless field
of football honor.
Coming in cars and trucks
they lined the Fleur de Lis
sitting in heated living rooms
watching drive-in theater
racing back and forth
stopped only by hot chocolate
and coffee, the marching band,
errors of offense and defense,
passing conversations with familiars,
the cheers of the crowds,
and the intense watching
of those standing
at the fence.
Too young to pay,
we passed,
running up and down
the steps, in and out
of the light, back
and forth darting shadows;
minnows flashing
across the creek
outlining the limits
of the football meadow.
At the top of the hill
hidden in silhouettes
against the old brick school;
the children ran
under the tall oak trees
no longer in shadow
but deep into
the night.
‘Too young for you,’
they said,
these old men in
jeans, flattops,
and flannel shirts.
And all I saw
were dark wide eyes,
red lips blackened by night,
and a face,
expressionless and white
like the wooden sides
of the Baptist Church.
She went with them
into that night,
screened ‘round
by close wide trunks of oak,
the tall dark school,
and crest of
rancorous hill.
Graves Crossing
August 21, 2004
Greenfield Series
©2004 Jacket Weather — Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.