There really is a place
with that name. I know.
I live there, and it wasn't
settled by giants. In the graveyard
there isn't one more than six feet.
Some are smaller. Young things died
sooner back then.
From the center
of town, you can see it
as you pick up your mail,
one of the last stands of pine
in the Palouse. The graves
in between make pines seem
darker. Spring wheat makes trees
more of a shadow, old growth
against new.
published in Wind Row, vol. 2, no., Spring 1984.
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