Mound Digger
　　by Sarah Lindsay
　　 This mound of dirt and the summer are heirs to transfer

　　 from what lies before and what lies behind，

　　 pinch by pinch. Of the mound， she keeps a record.

　　 The point， the students have been assured，

　　 is not to find objects. Their object is

　　 to understand the ground.

　　 What water did with it， when.

　　 how often earthworms combed and cast it.

　　 Whether it was tilled or thrust aside，

　　 which seeds lay in it， which pollens settled.

　　 When it's too dark to dig， she makes a tent

　　 of reading assignments. A chapter on similarities

　　 between spear points unearthed in Virginia

　　 and Soultrean points in Spain，

　　 both kinds wrought as though for beauty

　　 and cached in heaps of red ocher. Another book

　　 invites her to peer at the keyhole shape of a bone

　　 the size of her index finger， engraved

　　 these ten thousand years with forty strokes--

　　 fourteen， eight， eleven， then seven--and polished.

　　 A tally， a game， the score？

　　 We'll never know. And here's a review

　　 of arguments about a broken rock

　　 that might have been bashed into useful shape

　　 deliberately， with another rock，

　　 by some original axe-making biped，

　　 or might be a geofact， a tease，

　　 a found axe--or no tool at all.

　　 She douses the light

　　 and all the words disappear.

　　 Morning， back to the mound. It's two mounds now；

　　 she knows it halfway through， its wayward layers，

　　 silky and barren or matted with nutrients，

　　 heavy clay， a thousand shades of brown.

　　 She sees it with her eyes shut， with her palms，

　　 sometimes tastes it. Leaves the flints and bones

　　 to thrill-seekers and visionaries.

　　 Dirt answers her questions. She has dug past

　　 any props or plots or characters

　　 to the stuff all stories walk on