Cows came to lap at water here,
by the bank,
where oak and maple would shade
them, and where even
I might have found rest.
The sounds of traffic then would
have been the cacophony of
birdsongs -- finch, bluebirds, robins,
towhee, and the ubiquitous crow,
Taking a sabbath-rest from his
plundering of the man's corn,
the man who sowed and waited and
reaped here, by the creek,
down early from his house on the hill.
Today I pass a landscape long-shaped
by people who no longer remember
what was here -- the green valley,
lapping water, caressing breeze
and the man, long gone, but today I saw it in
My mind's eye, like it was yesterday.
[I wrote this after a bicycle ride along the greenway by Crabtree Valley, along Crabtree Creek. I am old enough to remember when Crabtree Valley Mall was a cow pasture, when the Beltline (I-440) was not here, and Glenwood Avenue was a two-lane non-commercial strip, and when Kidd Brewer still lived in his house on the hill.]