Wanting to say things, I miss my father tonight. His voice, the slight catch, the depth from his thin chest, the tremble of emotion (5) in something he has just said to his son, his song: We planted corn one Spring at Acu— we planted several times But this one particular time (10) I remember the soft damp sand in my hand. My father had stopped at one point to show me an overturned furrow; the plowshare had unearthed (15) the burrow nest of a mouse in the soft moist sand. Very gently, he scooped tiny pink animals into the palm of his hand and told me to touch them. (20) We took them to the edge of the field and put them in the shade of a sand moist clod. I remember the very softness of cool and warm sand and tiny alive mice (25) and my father saying things.