abandoned for years
overgrown with sumac and sour apple，
the iron scrapped1， the wood long
gone for other things.
In summer my father would send us along them
to fetch the cows from the back pasture2，
a long walk to a far off place it seemed
for boys so young. Lost again for a moment
in that simple place，
I fling3 apples from a stick and look for snakes
in the gullies. There is
a music to the past， the sweet tones4
of perfect octaves
even though we know it was never so.
My father had to sell the farm in that near perfect time
and once old Al Shott killed a six foot rattler on the tracks.
And when the trolly was running he said， you could jump
her as she went by and ride all the way to Cleveland，
and oh， he said， what a time you could have there.
