They liked their cabin and lying next to each other, Long nights of winter when the slow-burning pine-knots Danced ghosts and witches over the low, near ceiling, Short nights of summer, after the work of the fields, When the hot body aches with the ripened sweetness And the children and the new tunes are begotten together.

“What you so wakeful for, black boy?” “Thinkin’, woman.” “You got no call to be thinkin’, little black boy, Thinkin’s a trouble, a h’ant lookin’ over de shoulder, Set yo’ head on my breas’ and forget about thinkin’.”

“I got my head on yo’ breas’, and it’s sof’ dere, woman, Sof’ and sweet as a mournin’ out of de Scriptures, Sof’ as two Solomon doves. But I can’t help thinkin’.”

“Ain’t I good enough for you no more, black boy? Don’ you love me no more dat you mus’ keep thinkin’?”