from the edge of town

The music rides in from the edge of town and few hear the hints as it comes

upon the spring breeze.  Mostly it is ignored. People shake their heads as

it comes toward them.

 

Patches of life spring forth where the notes of melody stop, waiting for

someone to recognize it.  Elsewhere, thorns grow at the thicket. Discontent

becomes common place.

 

A train comes from the overpass. It travels southward as it does each day

It has it’s own rhythm as the wheels find their voice. It’s like hearing God,

if you listen.  Melodies and rhythms continue, waiting for someone

to hear; someone to share what they feel.