Coals The abandoned farm is a black pool aaaaaaain the memory of the forest beyond. The road goes by never stopping; only echoes aaaaaaaof dead horses and a shout aaaaaaafrom my grandmother aaaaaaathat the huckster wagon is coming. The clouds build their silences until aaaaaaathe noisome birds fall quiet aaaaaaaunder all that weight overhead. Even the mailbox is gone, the lane weed-choked. The only living voice is the rustle of the corn talking aaaaaaawhen the wind rises and the sky...
