Cars speed, heedless of my crossing
into the place between the houses
that noise and hurry forgot.
A gravel path with dappled shade,
lines of buzzing apple trees,
fragrant goldenrods dance.
A painted barn,
a swamp with painted turtles.
I stop and go as I like,
no signs or signals here,
no roads or cars interrupt.
But I sit a spell and listen.
Grasshoppers and toads,
the bleat of a sheep or goat,
a raven caws, leaves whisper.
At the edge of the quiet place,
a county highway, almost.
I wait for cars to pass.
Back into my neighborhood,
back into my life,
and worry and work.