A Whippoorwill Calls for Memories
Bonita Junction – March
(a poem from the book)
She walked the wye road today
her clumsy white boots making
goliath footprints in the crusty snow.
Stopping near the tight-lipped creek
she heard it clear its throat
in anticipation of spring.
As she gathered pussywillows
nestled near willow saplings
on the right side of the tracks,
she saw a crow circle and swoop
land on the jagged stump
in the sleeping bay.
On her way to semaphore rock, she
stared at the remains of a water tower
and the open meadow where
a boxcar once housed two crewman
who gathered turtle eggs tucked
between the ties and
drank rotgut for medicinal purposes.
Thus, she niggled away an hour or so
but the conundrum remains:
if she hears the rumble
why doesn’t’ she see the train?
© 1982, Kay Saunders