Come with me for a moment.

I promise you’ll hear the town’s secrets

whispered in the wind from a hundred years back -

across the clickety clack of the

Southern Railway track.

If you stand behind Jim Boe’s mill, you can see the tiniest dewdrop

perched on the silky petal

of a Dandelion, or see a rainbow

on the mossy base of a Sycamore tree.

In my town, there’s no shame in sharing.

The sweet sap of maple is still worth its weight in coins.

And, on a cold night, when the fireplace is burning low,

and you listen for the hooting of the owl,

or to the songs of the dripping water,

the songs that are the notes

of the lives of all the laughing people,

you can almost hear time passing by.

In my town, there’s no pain in caring

for those who can’t care for themselves.

Stop everything, just for a while.

Come with me. I promise you’ll hear the town’s secrets

whispered in the wind from a hundred years back -

across the clickety clack of the Southern Railway track.

Shhhhhhhh. Listen...