Stray voices called across the blinding heat,
Then drifted off to shadowy retreat
Among the sheds.
The waters of the bay
Sucked away
In tepid swirls, as listless as the day.
Silence closed about me, like a wall,
Final and obstinate as death.
Until I longed to break it with a call,
Or barter life for one deep, windy breath.
A mellow laugh came rippling
Across the stagnant air,
Lifting it into little waves of life.
Then, true and clear,
I caught a snatch of harmony;
Sure lilting tenor, and a drowsing bass,
Elusive chords to weave and interlace,
And poignant little minors, broken short,
Like robins calling June--
And then the tune:
"Oh, nobody knows when de Lord is goin ter call,
_Roll dem bones_.
It may be in de Winter time, and maybe in de Fall,
_Roll dem bones_.
But yer got ter leabe yer baby an yer home an all--
_So roll dem bones_,
Oh my brudder,
Oh my brudder,
Oh my brudder,
_Roll dem bones!_"
There they squatted, gambling away
Their meagre pay;
Fatalists all.
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