Down our narrow lane, turn right.
One more Indian summer day,
even this late in November.
A red-headed woodpecker beckons,
pecking away at a topless tree.
 
Almost at hill's crest, a young girl, her mother
and small brother stocking the farm stand.
Their century-old clapboard house sits off
to the side, reminding me of the house
where I lived at her age. We wave. She's barefoot,
minding her brother like I would have been, marooned
on our wooded parcel, eager to see someone new.
 
In the 40's my father bought the house
by silent bid, $525 for the doctor's old residence
on the White Earth Indian Reservation,
might be called Native American now.
He dug out a full basement on eighty acres
given to him by his father, then moved his proud
acquisition the short distance by hay wagon.
 
Walking back down the hill, a red-tailed hawk
floats by; I call up and she circles overhead
in a spiral of recognition.  A deer watches
as I pass by the neighbor's back fence,
undecided to bolt. I reassure him.
I think he knows my voice,
he a daily visitor to our home.


© by Carolyn Chilton Casas.
Used with the author's permission.