"Hobo" / by Marsha l. VonderBrink

Funnel of pink sky, deep root reds of sunset lying up against the mellowing west drooping of the trees, as, if, to kiss the ground, begging for mositure to ease their thirst, rain must fall, torrents of, wetness to relieve the trees and grass of, their terrible drowse. Sagging of, the wind against the trees, making them weak, bow their knees, sap their branches as, each breath touches the trunk. Dust settling softly upon everything, coating the weeds and bushes thick as can be, deepening of, twilight over the eerie land lends shadows to fence posts, makes them look tall, the moonlight creeps in on silent feet, searching out places we can't even see. Brittle leaves and whirls of dust blanket sound of, dragging feet, a lonely hobo with no where to go, let alone a place called home, lays his head upon a stone, till the next day, when he will arise to roam, down all the vallies, from here to there, eat anything, has next to nothing to wear, refuses to care for the things of, this world, he is a free man! 1/8/03