On Arnold Ridge, the headlights hold
the shadows to their trenches.
And stab the bolder whispers,
as they scramble from the fences.
They might tell you that year laden ashes,
hound-tracked and smooth,
can't forget the hillside kettles.
They might tell you that dead camps still recall:
carbide lights, corn liquor and coming of age
near the sound of guns and fiddles.
Once born,
few secrets are new!
But, if, like tonight, they follow you down;
down into the half-hidden hollow of the hunter's homestead,
you might hear
the music of corn-shocked nights
chasing blue-ticked hounds far into the years.
Once born,
new secrets are few!
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