This Country Needs Its Legends

I’m talkin’ necromancer, but in a hands-on kind of way. I’m talkin’ rubber boots thick with freshly-turned mud. I’m talking palms all calloused from the effort of it all. I’m talking biceps. I’m talkin ruddy cheeks and a tan. I’m talkin shoving spell components into ratty overalls and scribblin’ incantations in the old almanac. I’m talkin bringing back Patches ‘cause the mice got in the grain and no one else was quite as good at chasin pests away. I’m talkin asking the old donkey if she wouldn’t mind another spin, only the mare’s just exhausted what havin just had twins. I’m talking grandpa said, before he went, that he felt he wasn’t done, and he’s really gonna miss the golden wheat under sun. And who am I, in the end, to deny a dyin’ wish?

Midwestern Gothic