My father always hunted for

the great sand pit on every

farm he owned or rented, every

field, pasture, and woodlot,

always sending out Jake with

the D3 Cat and blade to scrape

into rounded hills, always

dreaming of filling up South

Jersey concrete with his very own

perfect glacier-ground sand at

thirty bucks a ton, a vision of armies

of monster dump trucks and steam shovels

replacing all the cows that had to be

milked twice a day, every day,

year in and year out.


After he died and we sold the farm,

the new owners found it in the back pasture,

a mighty river of sand hidden beneath

huge boulder erratics we always thought

were the tips of eroded mountains.


Who is their right mind

would dig there? But that's where

they found that great ocean

of sand.