PAMELA DILLON
PAMELA DILLON // 4
HARVEST T
he five boys walked the gravel road to the Co-op Gas Bar, and then turned left and walked another four kilometres to the edge of town; the road lead east to Alvena and west to Liscomb. Yellow fields coloured every vista; the endless prairie sky took in the rest. It was a late August afternoon and the boys were bored. They hopped the wood fence by Penner’s then traipsed through the wheat field making tracks through the high rows of grain. “Bet I can make it to the tree line before you.” Larch smacked Milton and Ronnie on the back of their heads as he slithered between them. He turned around and yelled, “Can’t catch me, ya losers!” They all took off, running together like a pack of wild dogs set upon a rabbit. Soon, Milton fell behind, then he slowed to a walk, stopped, and bent over. Ronnie turned back and jogged the short distance between them. He leaned down and slapped his hand between Milton’s shoulders. “Got a stitch?” Milton nodded and grunted a few breaths. Ronnie said, “Don’t matter. No point trying to catch up now. Larch always has to win, even if he cheats.” Milton pushed his hair off his face. “He better hope ole Pig Face Penner doesn’t see him in those rows.” They stood side-by-side and watched the brothers run. Whoops of laughter carried across the field, and before long the three brothers were out of sight. Ronnie pulled a rough strand of wheat from the ground, slipped it from its sheath and stuck the slim end into his mouth. Milton did the same. Ronnie cupped his hand around the end and pretended to light it. He tossed a non-existent match over his shoulder, “Smoke ’em if you got ’em.” Milton mimed a dramatic inhale. Ronnie laughed. Milton liked the sound of Ronnie’s laugh, it was unusual like an inside joke.
GATO, 30” x 40”, PHOTO ARTISTRY, 2018 | JOAN BUTTERFIELD
