So many echoes from when I was young depended on fence posts leaning with time and rusted hinges, and on the old railraod tracks we walked to the store for cheap cigarettes and Rolling Stone.
So many echoes center on when I see the fenced in field and the bales of hay under the harvest moon, waiting to be picked up and sent away under the rising sun.
There is so much to be seen and heard and felt.
(and there is so much that remains…)
Just look into the fading light of night and then again in the increasing light of day.
Ther is so much to be learned from those well tanned and muscular builders, working so early in the morning, shattering the early morning silence of a Saturday with hammer and saws, then carefully balancing heavy bundles of shingles while they walk up a narrow ladder stepping onto pitched toofs again and again.
Then there was that Sunday as the day spread across the sky and the games went on and on, each their own little dramas on their own fields, like a stage.
I wondered if the echoes continued into the night across the empty fields and bleachers?
And then more and more as the sun went down and the wind that made the flag sway and the last to leave closed up and locke dhte gate?
There is still so much that depends on those voices and those cracking bats and all those dreams, young and old and how they echo across those fields.
9/25 – 11/17/21