I hear the birds of spring but see Van Gogh's crows, making a perfect landing on a deserted corn field where George Washington and his soldiers slept.


Who knows what they have to complain about to the ghosts of cows with their young nuzzling behind electric fences, or to the ghosts of sheep grazing, the scattering of hens and roosters the last to disappear from the old farm.


A sign still stands announcing EGG HOURS, as if in this place time is measured in eggs. An old graveyard across the Presbyterian street guards the tombstones of those who lived and died in this town, although the gate is rusted open and the only flowers are wild ones that bloom in spring, no matter what. Moss on marble, on granite.


There is no peace here, the noise of the crows, or purple grackle like crocus, the noise of the dead blending. You would think on a sunny day, in a small town, at the side of a church, there would be a silent lullabye or hymn of faint praise, silence even.


Then I remember this is where a couple in their forties were buried after being murdered by their son. A book was written; it was on television and in all the newspapers. My older son went here to preschool and we were taking the boys on the playground as the hearses pulled in and news helicopters flew overhead.

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