Sunday's Service
A walk along the railroad bed on the fall day time changes, even with Harleys zooming past on the highway, soothes an aching back and mind flooded with student writing. The lane winds through forest where the Mountain Goat used to chug, past rabbit hutches, The Hair Gallery, a ramshackle farmhouse, and the airport. Unaccompanied, the wanderer isn't alone. Her shadow tags along, first in front and then behind.
Leaves curl in their dying, like a baby's fingers or my father's, weeks before he died, upon themselves, elongated like El Greco brush strokes. 
Spider silk ties branch to branch, sparkling in the late light and then disappearing from view with another of my steps, like half-forgotten dreams or the faces of people I once knew. Leaves litter the path, evidence of nature's extravagant abundance, distant echoes of banjo skins at my feet. And the way winds and straightens, winds and straightens, winds and straightens like the past or the future or the now.
Leaves curl in their dying, like a baby's fingers or my father's, weeks before he died, upon themselves, elongated like El Greco brush strokes. 
Spider silk ties branch to branch, sparkling in the late light and then disappearing from view with another of my steps, like half-forgotten dreams or the faces of people I once knew. Leaves litter the path, evidence of nature's extravagant abundance, distant echoes of banjo skins at my feet. And the way winds and straightens, winds and straightens, winds and straightens like the past or the future or the now.
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