Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedPast the Well Hill’s slope of houses,like secret lives, the glossed birds hidefamiliar songs carried out to waters,settling with those flecks of promise,heckling with the tide.A path of leaves, dusty, trodden flat,that widens through a slant of treesthat was once a railroad track, that’s nowa ‘Greenfield Valley’ walk and here,with guileless hope,I kick through these spills of russet,dig deep beneath melts of sno...