Sometimes,
on dry, autumn days,
they are so loud
even I hear them,
a low rumbling that
follows after him,
like the memory of
a song, the melody strong,
the words partially
forgotten.
He
paces those long hours, talks about home
because he knows
that is where it is, still.
Thinks
about red roaring machines,
smells the dry dust
rising off the corn
that does not
surround our house.
Kristin Stoner
has been an instructor of English at the college level for the past seven
years. She received her MA from