I crossed the long field toward wood looking for the great man’s house. A field of indescript tan stalks without grain, nor fruit of any identity beneath the kind of cloudy sky
of entire gray bland, replete with refusal to rain.
The woodlot areached was likewise greyly dimmed where buried
beneath tall weedy picker bush
of non-negotiable
brambles aside a sticktight defense was seen short dead moss dominating grey deep small ridge of cement foundation,
last part left of where his house once stood
along with half buried
chunk of deeprust castiron, seeming a piece of some oldtime implement unredeemed now rendered unrecognized
by sedate horrors of time’s stalwart, steady passage thru
and between lands where nothing happens
new, not even the
happy loneliness of boys of solitude who crisscross
weathered old freshploughed fields
kicking down
furrows in search of flinty arrowheads
finding cornstalk
chips, narry a stone instead, and the abandoned anthills of millions of demoralized inhabitants yet undead.

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