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Morning hung on the wet city, Nashville’s electric streets rolled as we made haste. North to Kentucky, weary with the long silence of a life ending, just as the gray skies laid heavy, like fingers of deaf women singing for hope, a little hope where there was none.  

Harvest is over, the morning settled over hearts waiting, turning, spinning the ripe sun into a long after thought. The peel falls of the fruit one by one the other earth is waiting. Did we see or hear all the gates as they opened to the end of this season? Life’s moist earth readies herself for the new crop, some remain as some go, they sleep forever longing for a song from the bitter soil. Once I could have told you what awaits the sleeping night. Now I wonder if she can’t have her dreams the way she wants them, a place of peace and rest. Ready the land with furrows dark and rich for seeds of thought, sprouts of living spiritual meaning raining new dreams on the now long past streets of the big city in the south. 

Before we got through Kentucky she had died. The rain still washed the green, pounded the afternoon into slow evening. Memories lie drowning in afterthought, yesterday thrown from the windshield while the fertile earth turned.

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