The Widow's Ballad

Now the black crows circle round and round
Above that patch of fresh turned ground,

And my hands are blistered from the work
Of bending low and shoveling earth.

My brow is wet and my back aches
And when I laugh my voice shakes.

Tired, I sit me down on the grass
And wonder how much time has passed.

How long since I did it, the stone in my hand?
I can't tell you, perhaps the crows can.

Two birds on the ground, ten more in the sky,
Squawking and flapping will draw curious eyes.

Folks in town will see far on such a clear day,
And old man Brown not two miles away . . .

He'll come to see why crows circle my place
And I'll laugh to see the look on his face.

Folks from town will frown at my long linen skirt,
Spattered up and down with blood and loamy dirt.

"To think," they'll say, "she could do it at all,
Her so quiet spoken and small."

"To think she did it, her so mild
And eight months pregnant with his child."