Buried to the Neck

A trowel hangs on a nail by the back door. Graciela does not come out. At the end of the nearest bed you dig a hole deeper than your hand is long, and set the bag in with its probes down. You pack the soil around it with your palms, up to the neck of the bag, so that only the panel shows.

The soil is damp and cold to the wrists. Through the window the long table is lit, and she has gone back to her page. From here you can hear the tubes, one low note.

The panel is tipped up, toward the east. Along the fence the others are tipped the same way.