Seth Copeland

Easter Sunday

After the brisket, we comb grandma’s yard for eggs. Five years old with one good eye. Early, I often fell, and through that learned to spring back. My feet kick up the yellowed grass like dusty straw, scanning for blues and pinks. My uncle has hidden one in the mouth of the grain auger, its bit cold and still, but grandma still swears at him for it, reminds him a boy got his hand mangled in one down on Baseline Road last year. That’s all that I remember; I must have gone back to the eggs.

red elms sway
a shivering shadow on
grain silos