A Sweep Through Time

by Donald Jenkins

Steady journeymen, precision brush makers sit round a pitch pan, their masterful hands dip bristles into warm black tar of woodman’s glue, tying root ends with twine. In spilt seconds – pine sap cools, wiry bundles are stuffed in stock, craftsmen determine if this will be a fine broom, do fibers align to get a good bend? Their calloused palms don’t forget toil of elders who got them there, elders who knew only farm life, cattle fence builders with well-seasoned elm. . Elders who left behind field work, chilling threats of hunger, joined exodus to secure their worth, prove their hands had value.