Sometimes when it's real quiet, when I can just barely
hear the soft whining strains
of the harmonica coming over my
car radio late at night out
here alone on the Interstate, I
think back to those clod-dirt roads
in Oklahoma where I was young
and trailed the stale tracks left by
humpbacked jack rabbits and such.
Then, when the wind is just right, I
think I can just barely hear my
mom calling saying ``It's suppertime,
son, come wash your hands,'' and
the whirr-whirring of the ceiling fans.