Cornfields

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These are some reflections I had cache’d and didn’t put up for some reason:

Corn fields. They come to represent something different when you’re speeding past them on the train. You don’t see the face of the young traveler returning home to Oklahoma, or Kansas, or Tennessee to see hundreds of thousands of people leaving, who couldn’t handle the dust, and the heat, and the gut wrenching realization that they owed more money to the banks than they could ever pay. You don’t see how they had to pack up their things to go live like coyotes, and stay under the tree’s, and the under the railroad tracks, and in little shacks made out of cardboard and old corrugated iron that they got from the dumps. How they all became stragglers and homeless in the great Midwest and watched in sorrow the gambling man get rich beyond his years while the workingman fed his children with barely enough left to fill in the holes in the roof that stop the rain from coming in. How the mines shut down one by one, leaving only the smell of gasoline and alcohol lingering in the air. They are the ones who can truly say they have no home, they are the ones that take all the spark out of being a rambling man, they are the ones who make my travels seem sad and lonely not because I am alone but because I don’t have to be. 

Old Mining Shed
Old Mining Shed
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