It’s a place where the jackrabbits seem to be the only one’s
who obey the stop signs at the intersection of Avenue G and 7th Street
and prairie dogs make their way across what was once a vast grassland
and is now only interrupted by two lanes to allow for traffic.
It’s a place where the pink and the orange and the blue
seem to melt in a vat of color
and in the end, merge into one.
It’s a place where a woman makes her way down the middle of the street
she’s confined to a wheelchair and not the motorized kind either
and I think that she, like many other things in a small town are old school
and has made this journey countless times over the years
and the ruts she leaves remind me of the ruts covered wagons once made
when they made their similar journey so many years ago.
It’s a place where the quiet, the oh so quiet
is only disturbed by the sound of frying peppers and laughing babies
and little fingers pointed toward the sky
just like they always did.
It’s a place where the evening sky takes forever to turn dark
and the morning comes on like a fresh wave of sunlight
and what change does come, comes slowly
and in the end, it’s a place where those little fingers no longer
point directly at the sky or the lady in the wheelchair struggles on her errands
and all seem to be pointed in the right direction.