Posted in Finding Frost's Road: Encounters with the Culture

Walking home on a Saturday morning

I walk through the town in the quiet of an early Saturday morning.

I listen to the loud greetings of the alcoholic men who wait for the liquor store to open.

I walk past discarded clothes where the homeless slept.

On the street that was crammed with rush hour traffic yesterday, now there is only the occasional wind of a passing car.

Here is the place where I spoke to the proprietor about playing music in the evenings. She has yet to respond. I think of my concert hat that still hangs from the hook in a dark closet and my guitar lying lonely in its case in the corner.

I share a smile with the old woman beneath her magnolia tree which reminds me of my boyhood home.

Then I am at the hill and climbing toward my house, wondering what awaits me there today.

Behind me the sun rises.

I feel the heat on my back and before me my shadow stretches out, leading the way, pointing me towards home.

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