Out Here

It isn’t all just skeletons impaled
on rusty pitchforks,
it is also golden skies and fields
colliding in the evening
when the fires start
and the only smell is smoke.

Fishing poles stick out the sides
of covered bridges over creeks
where even children
catch the Mooneye
just to throw them back
like coins into a fountain.

A couple old men strum guitars
and try to remember
their old favorites
some now so ragged
all the names
have been forgotten.

Classic tractors orange from
their age out in the rain
match the colors of the harvest,
but in the spring run just as
royally as new.

Stray dogs howl at passing trains
full of cargo from out East
and long lost stowaways
from ages past who jump off
in the softest grass
then find their feet again,
and see how far they made it.