Sonnet On a November Day

nearly seventy dollars like that once, in an old cabin nobody had lived in for years. He just started wiggling rocks in the fireplace until he found one that was loose, and there was the money, right behind it." "Aw," the boy said, but he cut his eyes toward the cabin, then looked quickly away. "I guess you're right, kid. Well, I better go. Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas, mister." Alan walked about a hundred yards, then looked over his shoulder. The boy was still standing there. Alan waved, the boy waved back, then the path turned behind a laurel thicket and the highway came into view. Alan stopped behind the thicket and peeked cautiously around. The boy's gun was propped against the wall by the open door of the cabin. Alan waited. In a few minutes there was a whoop from inside the cabin and the boy burst out the door -waving a handful of bills. He ran up the path toward his house, and Alan could hear him yelling. "Pa! Ma! Come here! Look what I found!" Alan turned and walked quickly down the path to the car. What a weird night. He must have dreamed that stuff about the old woman and all. Still, he had put the presents on the porch, and he had known where the money was. This was going to take some sorting out. He got into the car and started it, still preoccupied. It had to be some kind of dream, he was sure of it. What else could it be? He put the car in gear and twisted around to look out the back window for traffic before he pulled out into the road. And in the back seat, lying folded among the Christmas presents, was the Star of Bethlehem quilt. = 0l(lllllMII(flll)ltltllllllH11l lltrilllli;i(MfiriMf(li/IHIIllll(l(MIIUIinilM(llll)irnilfllllllMt(IMUIIIllimMIIIII)ltllIIIIIIIIlllllimil>tlMllttlMimtmi1l II11II l>IIUIMItIltnilll)IIIIIIH(tin = *** ¿_ S . i:¡ ? "A ?* IKf Sonnet On a November Day This warm November day we tramp the lane and climb its narrow winding path uphill; shy birds in thickets view us with disdain, and flee in coveys to a distant rill. We pass by Esther's house, and old gray barn, where cured tobacco hangs in golden leaf; then come to spicy-smelling pines that warn of past glad Christmases and present grief. We mount the hill and reach its grassy crest; the Tygart Valley spreads its fields below. We pause to triumph and, fatigued, to rest, and listen to the wind's relentless flow. From here, we scan our ancient Planet Earth, and return fulfilled to home and blazing hearth. —Paula Wells j-wî e¿ IoniumiHmimmtMimiimiiiiiiimiHiimmmuiimmiiimiiiim......iuiimniimiimiimimiHis ?« mÄ il X*5 ^vvX * ·· ·>· ' S \ Iw y°^ ./:·'·¦··' ? xxxxxx>oo