Ice crystals sparkle in the crunchy hard packed snow beneath parking lot lights atop tall frosty silver poles.The long slow whistle of the morning freight train drifts clearly in cold air all the way from the far side of harbor town. The words of an old man, four beers into our conversation, comes to mind from forty years ago. Ol’ Short always claimed that distant train whistles and powerful northwest winds blowing through shoreline pine groves were the most mournful sounds he ever heard. I offer thanks for sixty years of fragmented poetic conversational recall, and souls long since passed obliging me to use whatever they had to offer that makes me smile. Peace.
Posted on: Mon, 03 Feb 2014 13:34:45 +0000
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