BECK'S MILL stands of corn fields of grass and tall flowers purple white yellow spread up the rounded valley sides tracts of trees and deeper forest around and no one looking on from the trees' edge no one sees the labor in the fields and the workers' slow drag home no one's hand has drawn up through dirt the stones that hinder plows and no one hollowed the earth with sinkholes and creased it with creekbeds no one stands in the fine night sky watching the good rest of farms and forest in the cool hours no one has slipped away to the fallen mill's gray boards broken rooms stacked with moonlight and shadow no one's creaking in the rafters above no one stands nearby in white light on the grave mound for sorrows without name the exiles ran here and were run again no one followed them no one stayed behind no one is coming up from far away tonight holding shells sharpened stones and other gifts that shine in no one's seeing