The Hills hold much to be discovered
red tile roofs poke up from trees in the valleys
a lone train track leading nowhere snakes by the windy road
branches hang low
shading my window
peaks behind fade in and out
and everywhere else
there is rich green
field patches
from grains to pines to bushes to low growing grass
a clump of white hats dancing in rows of stalks
an intersection
a bar
a general store
a café
or two.
A crumbling statue of a comrade holding his rifle
wearing a miner’s hat.
But mostly what look like peaceful homes
either white or red brick
holding steady against a gentle breeze
and here I am
wondering
if anyone here has heard of Duke,
of the bread baked,
the children raised,
and the whole lives lived
Inside and out