At the end of the driveway, a sycamore stands. Grounded, pealing gray with white flesh underneath; a sentinel spreading branches over our coming and going. Its roots, deeper than the vision of my eyes and the life of my family. Its summer shade cools our heads, tanned arms and busy hands. Grand and stately, a … More DRIVEWAYS END
A long bleeding whistle strikes the air over a small village. Rattling wheels of the black engine spills steam to the sides where trees grow and children point with curious eyes. The song of shivering metal runs the tracks hard; doors, front lawns, gates and faces all appear the same. The next curve and bend … More 93 MILES TO GO
A seclusion moon splits between clouds, sheading onto flat fields, fence posts and tombstones. A feather soft wind song plays the leaves. Birds cease their inflight bickering. Stars reflect around the edges of sleeping lily pads. A prevailing mist covers everything like gauze, draping over stonewalls and stiff brush topped ferns. The echo of an … More COLD HANDS
Roger Singer 