Sometimes the road wanted more gravel—
then we’d go down to the gravel pit

with a wagon made of wheels
and two-by-fours. My father slung

shovelfuls of sand into the wagon,
and I picked out the chunks of gold

that threaded through our land
like veins in a living body.

I liked how the clay held itself together—
unlike the fickle gravel that

would slip out from between the boards
to fill any rut in the road.