Brad Rose
Nebraska
Early Sunday morning, just outside Hazard, the local farmers ganged together in their John Deeres to mow down the crop circles. The ones no one ever talked about. Then, they got good and drunk, before setting off for town in their Ford F-150s, to attend church.
Later that day, as you and I stood on your sagging front porch, skeletal lightning jittered in the distance—white blades stabbing at silver bones in a tense, gray sky. It’s just like the summer day my little sister disappeared, you said, matter-of-factly. You looked so automatic and angular, like a splinter of God. It’s not that dangerous. Sure, there are spikes, but just little spikes. Anyway, they’re still a long ways off.
Then, in a voice hollow as a doll, you added, We can’t know why things happen. Not why they really happen. We just can’t know.
