“Alluvium” by Nathan Poole

The word was in the blood. Beating in four with the heart: Exhumation. The two diggers had their heads down and were not speaking—the man, the woman—and the man could hear the word so clearly, beating away, without which nothing was made, he thought, think of anything, dear God, anything but the hole you are standing in. And so the word, which sounded in him soft, and easy, as if the earth would exhale a body if he said it just right, if he spoke it like a spell. But he knew it would not come easy and they were only digging harder as the rain picked up and the river snuck into the lower field, moving quickly toward them, making the young sorghum wave as though a strong wind had just lain down on it.

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