To Throw a Stick at the Moon

and dived and scampered for cover. Most shoe, and both overall galluses hangin in of 'em hit the hills, flying off the face of the briers, the earth. Soon Huckle was the only one left in BOOM! BOOM! Brother, whejp it the swag. He was just a-headin and a- commenced to rainin hoss weed leaves pitchin, back and forth, blind as a bat, and stems on my head and shoulders, I with both eyes swelled together. JR had knowed it was time for me to mock the backed hisself into a brierpatch under Lone Ranger! In a cloud of dust and a the big el-em, fightin for his life. hearty "wait for me JR", I shot out of BOOM! BOOM! El-em leaves dropped that thicket like a silver bullet and hit all around him. He throwed his palen the dusty trail of the Low Gap Road slat straight up, tuck one quick pull at with thunderin hoof beats! I'm satisfied hisself and tore through that brierpatch that faithful Indian companion Tonto like a mad bull through a broom sage would a been hard pressed to keep in patch. He hit the road in a wild dash, sight of Kerne Sabe as I rounded the curve the further the faster, flailin his arms like and headed for home like that great hoss a Banty rooster with both wings broke. Silver, a-bellying the earth into the fadin He left two shirt sleeves, one Brogan sunset of old Sol. TO THROW A STICK AT THE MOON My hands do not like themselves anymore they have grown, struggling in a glove of time, tired and slow. There was a time when I did not hesitate if called upon to throw a stick or a rock at the moon while standing damp in a vacant lot or under the streetlight's gloom, ran once faster than the wind across a stubbled field clutching a brown ball against my plunging side dancing in mock at the chapped hands clasping at my heels aware only of the fleeting earth beneath the stacatto peck on turf of weightless feet and the northern sun licking at my neck. My hands were sure then and knew no hint of guilt, in summer they parted mirrors to scare minnows. . .just to prove they could. I tried last year to carve new loves on the rotted wood of my childhood's tree but my hands shook. —Wallace Beasley 30 ...