By Teague von Bohlen
She and her sister once saw their father dancing, with their mother out in the scruff between the house and the barn, dimly lit by the forty-watt on the back porch. Their father was surprisingly gentle for a man with such rough hands, dried like late autumn apples. His head rested on hers; they swayed to music that wasn’t there. Or maybe it was just the wind and the cicadas.