I turned the pot and watched the sky,
with supper nearly done;
a wet wind shook the mesquite leaves
and hid the sinking sun.
The cattle settled down beyond
the wagon’s crooked wheel.
Bo smelled the biscuits cooling there
and called for one more meal.
“The biggest story gets the last,”
he said, and licked his thumb.
Kit held his tin cup very still
and waited, small and numb.
I’d cooked since noon. My shoulders ached.
The beans were getting cold.
I wanted flames beneath the pot,
not stories twice retold.
The fire needed feeding then;
the damp wood hissed and spat.
Bo tipped his head and cleared his throat.
He straightened up his hat.
“I borrowed daylight in a pail,”
he said, “one winter year.
The sun was stuck behind a cloud.
I heard it crying clear.
“I climbed a ladder made of smoke
and reached the cloud at noon.
I dipped my bucket in the light
and nearly scooped the moon.
“The moon was cool. The sun was hot.
I mixed them half and half.
I brought the bucket down to camp
and warmed a frozen calf.”
Kit raised his hand. “I found some—”
Bo waved him down again.
“That calf grew horns of candlelight.
It shone across the plain.”
I stirred the beans. “I met that calf.
Its mother was my mule.
She kept the moon inside her pack
to make the summers cool.”
Bo blinked at me. The horses snorted.
Kit tried to hide a grin.
“A mule can’t carry that,” Bo said.
“You have to fold it thin.”
The fire needed feeding still;
the little sparks went black.
Bo took a biscuit-shaped new breath.
I pulled the kettle back.
“That mule was tired,” I told them both.
“The moon was heavy freight.
She laid it down beside the road
and left it there till late.
“A coyote found it lying flat
and ate a silver bite.
He howled until he coughed it up,
and that’s your moon tonight.”
Kit laughed aloud. Bo frowned at first,
then showed a wicked smile.
“I’ve met a coyote twice that big.
His whiskers stretched a mile.”
Kit raised his hand. “I have some bark.”
The wind went flapping, flat.
Bo said his whiskers caught that wind
and shook it from his hat—
“Enough,” I said. “Let Kit finish.”
The boy stood by the pot.
He reached inside his woolen coat
and showed us what he’d got.
Dry curls of bark lay in his palm,
wrapped in an old blue rag.
“I saved them when the clouds came up.
There wasn’t room in my bag.”
He’d carried them beside his shirt,
kept dry against his skin,
while Bo and I kept talking big,
our voices loud and thin.
The fire needed feeding now.
I knelt and made a space.
Kit laid the curls beneath the sticks.
Warm light climbed up his face.
Bo held his hat against the wind.
I blew an ember red.
A narrow flame caught one dry curl.
The little fire spread.
We moved the pot back to the heat.
The beans began to sing.
I gave the biscuit straight to Kit.
Bo didn’t say a thing.
Kit broke his biscuit into three
and kept the biggest bite.
He passed the other pieces round.
Bo held his to the light.
“That biscuit’s wide as a wagon wheel,”
Bo said, “and twice as round.
If Kit should drop his piece tonight,
it’ll roll across the ground.”
Kit held his crumb before the fire.
“It won’t roll down the hill.
It’s got a tiny team inside.
They’ll pull it up at will.”
I swallowed mine. “What do they eat?”
He grinned and said, “They wait.
I’ll feed them beans along the road.
I’ll steal them off your plate.”
The fire kept its steady voice.
Bo found some drier wood.
I filled their plates a second time;
our supper tasted good.
And when the dark came down on us,
Bo asked the boy to tell
how six bean-fed biscuit horses
had hauled him from a well.
Kit took his time. We let him start.
The stars came out, and then
he reached the bottom of the well
and made it deeper again.
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