Seasons Changing

through a Lucky Strike, than in ambling along the roadside at a playpretend job. When "black lung" was honored with a name, the state's lawyers spotted the gold behind it and began enlisting miners in their cause (one Eastern Kentucky lawyer, in three years of handling black lung cases, made two and a half million dollars). Ferd Runnel, always an obliging fellow, applied for benefits, though he had worked in a truck mine only a few weeks. He was let go when the coal market went into a slump. The day Ferd had his medical exam he was a bit nervous, a buddy who went with him reported. He arrived at the doctor's office early and chain-smoked until the nurse called him in. His lungs were so clogged with Lucky Strikes, he successfully failed the breathing test with room to spare. As if to make sure he getting his point across, he died before his claim could be processed. Millie Runnel was awarded enough money to buy a house trailer and a lot on the edge of town. Of course this was going too far. Her new neighbors made remarks behind her back. They could've overlooked a little butter and cheese, free school lunches for her children. Not one of them would've refused to chip in on the gingerbread if asked. Ferd never did anything to deserve all that money, they said. It's awful what our country's come to. Seasons Changing From the field below he'd passed clumps of cresses, frosted that morning. Across an old foot log he stepped carefully, slowly, where moss indented the surface. Life lay here and there, bunched in trout lilies, mottled, yellow flowers flirting, turkey mustard and sprigs of wintergreen. By rocks piled in a new field's plowed beginnings, the quick green of a garter snake slithered by like a girl's wind-frightened ribbon. In the season changing, it could have been a copperhead awakening. Where sarvis trees shroud a hill white, the chill had a bite. —John Cantey Knight 19 ...