Mist clung to the dew-kissed grass along the sleeping hills. In the half-light of impending dawn Virgil looked across the sea of headstones.
“Sweet?” Bubba asked. Virgil only shushed him and kept looking. “Sweet, whatchu doin?”
Virgil sighed and dropped his pail and shovel, “Gah, gimme a minute, wouldja, Bubba? This here is hallowed ground.”
“Well we’s s’posed to be gettin hallowed worms fer fishin with.”
Virgil turned away just in time to see the sun peak between the trees, back-lighting the Spanish moss like fire.
Pistol showed up, “Why ain’t we diggin’? Sweet gone philos’phizin agin?”
Shaking his head Virgil chided, “Y’all jes don’t get it. These’uns died fightin fer sumpin.”
“So? They’s dead,” Bubba queried.
“Yeah, fer sumpin. And what’er we doin?” Virgil said in a faraway tone. Bubba and Pistol exchanged glances. Pistol twirled his finger around his temple.
Bubba jangled his pail and shovel in front of Virgil’s pensive face, “Sweet, we’s diggin fer worms is what we’s doin. Durn crazy fool.”