The dark didn’t scare her.
It’s this way days
have grown long, like distances
between them of an evening.
It used to be they gathered
at the fire, had to draw near.
Maybe her husband played music,
but there was nothing more
to do until dawn. Since he’s been
working at the sawmill, and cut
the stand of wild cherry, she can see
town glowing in the valley, hear
the saws sing, but not him.
He doesn’t come home
until the coals are cold.
She eats in the kitchen while she cooks,
and reads the news, leaning into
the stove hood for its light.
The boy wants to get to town too.
Quick, eats what she hands him,
standing under the porch bulb,
while moths fly against it
and drop singed around them.
Then her son steps out
into the night.