Death of an Illinois Farmer by Nicholas Viglietti

The ambulance turned down the lane

while I was mulching behind the shed 

where I’d hammered four-by-fours into 

a groundhog tunnel with a ten pound 

sledge. I threw down the shovel, watched

red light pulsing into the low gray clouds.

My neighbor, who, too, had stopped,

started moving again on his green tractor.

We each raised a slow wave, a hundred

yards away. I don’t remember his name.

We spoke last fall. By the time I took a

drink and wiped my face with my shirt

front, little black shadow figures were

wheeling a gurney into the driveway 

back at the farmer’s house, two lots 

over and way back by the trees. Heard

later, it was him. They say he just died.

No warning. He had driven by the day 

before in his golf cart. He waved, smiled.

He was a good dude, as far as I know.

Back when we moved in, he brought by

a loaf of banana bread with walnuts 

and chocolate chips. It was still warm,

the chocolate gooey, and the walnuts 

soft. I ate the whole thing over the next 

day or so. His wife said he had all the

tools in the world, and he said I was 

welcome to them. Must be four years

ago now. I think about him a lot when

I’m mowing or working on something, 

when I wave to the other guy or to the

lady with the dog that walks by every

so often. The farmer lived here for fifty 

years, and then he died, and I wave

and so does the other guy and so does

the dog lady—and the grass needs cut,

and the gutters cleaned, and the trees 

trimmed, and the low clouds darken

after the sun drops and explodes in the 

pink ruin that becomes the night. I bet

we’re all thinking of him when we wave.

What would he do about this fucking 

groundhog?

Farming Hoe

Nicholas Viglietti is a writer from Sacramento, CA. After Katrina ravaged the gulf coast, he rebuilt homes there for 2 years. Up in Mon-tucky, he cut trails in the wilderness. He pedaled from Sac-town to S.D. He’s a seventh-life party-hack, attempting to rip chill lines in the madness