ENGINES, ENGINES, AND MORE ENGINES
(Page 3 of 3)
January/February 1957
A. PRESTON GRAY
As I bring this inadequate article to a close, let me pause,
before I do so, for we have finished the threshing job at my
boyhood home. The crew has departed. The neighbors have gone their
several ways. With the belt thrown, the engine moves down the road
with an apparent new freedom. The horse drawn 'thresh box'
lumbers along and at each depression in the road I see dust
dislodged and shaken into the air. Everything seems quiet and
lonely about the barn-lot. Father is cleaning up the screenings off
the barn floor, assisted by mother's ducks which after taking
to the water, each have a passport to duck-heaven, for some of the
screenings were oats!
RELATED CONTENT
I am bare-footed and as I walk along the wide tracks, digging my
toes into the grooves made by the diagonal cleats, and wondering
how long we could keep those pictured intaglio sculptures or that
pile of ashes, to me sacred, as if from the altar fires of some
deity. Happy Days were those to me, but they are gone, save in
memory. The Tide of Time moves on and those of you who helped to
make the poetic history to which I refer, and those who read
'THE IRON-MEN ALBUM' and edit and write the thrilling
record of its pages, are all poets who cherish the beautiful, the
true and the good, as you plan for the future and preserve the
past.
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