I stopped today at the grave of Harmon Yenney.
It is an April day, full of fear and promise, red-winged blackbirds
singing in the tender cattails. Back in 1962 I was fifteen, a callow, careless girl
and Harmon 17, not yet a man, gone in a flash, rabbit hunting, carrying his shotgun
with shells in the breech as he crossed an unfriendly fence.
Too soon we die, one and all, too soon forgotten with the Weidmans and the Fulraths,
the Christiansens and the Yenneys, long generations marked in the indifferent
undergrowth of a roadside cemetery on a warm April day.
Church on a Hill
Jesus Saves - Wednesday 7-9 PM
