An Island Song and Coda pt. 2 -- by Russell Block

A goat, occupied with the unending task of chewing weed, produced from a disturbance in the field to stand at the farmer’s side, chewing still. Thankfully, I was not met with violent agitation, a possibility that I was not wholly unprepared to match, or even overwhelm, as I began to navigate the subtler waters near the shore. So it was that I landed my raft with a sense of peaceful ease long desired by me, an ease desired for a greater span of time than had passed since my journey over the rude ocean began. This was an ease that many go without the whole of their lives.

“What brings you here?” His affect, like his accent, unplaceable as they were, were not unlike the island itself in that their details possessed an immediate and unmediated vibrancy. His overalls and baseball cap were unlike any garments I had ever seen in the course of my island upbringing. He wore on his feet materials of rubber and leather, the likes of which seemed totally unnecessary, and heavy to boot, especially in the inviting white of the island sand.

“Such is the wrath of the ocean that I cannot well forego the brief reprieve an island offers to those that land on friendly shores. Although much is provided by the ocean in terms of fish, water, rest and knowledge of the world of man are not to be found on her roiling domain. What splendors thrive here? I have never seen its like before.” Crops of uncommon mien, growing uniformly, were those of which I spoke. 

“This?” There could be no mistaking me. “This is Henry Moore Yellow Dent Corn, an heirloom strain. Yup,” he said, pausing, nut not, as far as I could discern, concluding his description. “All this here is Yellow Dent.”