Fields of Flashing like bits of cast-off rags. and covered her face. It wasn't until the dust didn't come back for From Out of the Dust turned toward the house, hours, by Karen Hesse like a fired locomotive, not and I fled, the temperature I heard the wind rise, barefoot and breathless, dropped so low, and stumbled from my bed, back inside, it brought snow. down the stairs, it wasn't until the dust Ma and I sighed, grateful, out the front door, hissed against the windows, staring out at the dirty into the yard. until it ratcheted the roof, flakes, The night sky kept flashing, that Daddy woke. but our relief didn't last. lightning danced down on He ran into the storm, The wind snatched that its spindly legs. his overalls half-hooked snow right off the fields, I sensed it before I: knew it over his union suit. leaving behind a sea of dust, was coming. "Daddy!" I called. "You can't waves and I heard it, stop dust. waves and smelled it, Ma told me to waves of tasted it. cover the beds, dust, Dust. push the scatter rugs rippling across our yard. While Ma and Daddy slept, against the doors, came in, the dust came, dampen the rags around he sat across from Ma and tearing up fields where the the windows. blew his nose. winter wheat, Wiping dust out of Mud streamed out. set for harvest in June, everything, He coughed and spit out stood helpless. she made coffee and mud. I watched the plants, biscuits, If he had cried, surviving after so much waiting for Daddy to come his tears would have been drought and so much wind, in. mud too, I watched them fry, Sometime after four, but he didn't cry. or rubbing low on her back, And neither did Ma. flatten, Ma sank down into a chair March 1934 or blow away, at the kitchen table
Fields of Flashing From Out of the Dust by Karen Hesse I heard the wind rise, and stumbled from my bed, down the stairs, out the front door, into the yard. The night sky kept flashing, lightning danced down on its spindly legs. I sensed it before I: knew it was coming. I heard it, smelled it, tasted it. Dust. While Ma and Daddy slept, the dust came, tearing up fields where the winter wheat, set for harvest in June, stood helpless. I watched the plants, surviving after so much drought and so much wind, I watched them fry, or flatten, or blow away, like bits of cast-off rags. It wasn't until the dust turned toward the house, like a fired locomotive, and I fled, barefoot and breathless, back inside, it wasn't until the dust hissed against the windows, until it ratcheted the roof, that Daddy woke. He ran into the storm, his overalls half-hooked over his union suit. "Daddy!" I called. "You can't stop dust. Ma told me to cover the beds, push the scatter rugs against the doors, dampen the rags around the windows. Wiping dust out of everything, she made coffee and biscuits, waiting for Daddy to come in. Sometime after four, rubbing low on her back, Ma sank down into a chair at the kitchen table and covered her face. didn't come back for hours, not the temperature dropped so low, it brought snow. Ma and I sighed, grateful, staring out at the dirty flakes, but our relief didn't last. The wind snatched that snow right off the fields, leaving behind a sea of dust, waves and waves and waves of dust, rippling across our yard. came in, he sat across from Ma and blew his nose. Mud streamed out. He coughed and spit out mud. If he had cried, his tears would have been mud too, but he didn't cry. And neither did Ma. March 1934