Driving on Zion Church Road

Hubert was sitting in his rocker on the porch, his face hidden in the evening shadows. I went on past him, turned on the lights, and started cooking supper. I cut two slabs of ham, slapped them into the sizzling skillet, and sifted flour into the bread bowl. There on the counter were the new jars of corn. I picked one up and held it to the light. Every kernel as golden as sunrise. Perfect. Driving on Zion Church Road Clusters of church people gather on steps beneath clouds puckering like fat blue judges. Their gossip and the wind build: the stomping of a farmer's muddy boots. My left hand skates air currents, shepherding a stream of dust and bugs. A pink welt rises on my thigh as the windows flash a thousand things that pass too fast to see. It is only this: simple landscape of black, tires tired and heated at the threads sustaining the motion of moving ahead into anywhere and rolling over oneself. Sheets of rain flap questions in the space above the horizon, the color of cream in coffee unstirred. Some saint said God is in the movement of the water. Maybe these thick robes of weather are promising salvation. —Andy Young 40 ...