My Vermont

by Tinker Greene

is a hayfield in a stuffy attic, piles of Life
magazine in rows like bales of cut hay. A noisy airplane
with a star on its side is buzzing the well we found
near the tree part way up the hill, under a rotting
lid. Past mossy stonework we drop clumps of dirt
through the clouds to watch the flash

when they hit the surface far below.
Two miles to town, and the woods are thick
with Germans and abandoned automobiles.
The Betit brothers wear berets, their rifles
stand next to the bulldozer. Squinting through
the smoke of their Gauloises they siphon gas.

Over the lake the thunderheads
gather as rabbits run from the scythe.