It was one of the carols
of summer and I knew that
even when the leaves were all
falling through it as it passed
and when frost crusted the tracks
as soon as they had stopped ringing
summer stayed on in that song
going again the whole way
out of sight to the river
under the hill and hissing
when it had to stop and hum
to itself while it waited
until it could start again
out of an echo warning
once more with a clang of its
bell I could hear it coming
from far summers that I had
never known long before I
could see it swinging its head
to its own tune on its way
and hardly there before it
was going and its singing
receding with it growing
smaller until they were gone
among the sounds only there
when they have come to silence
the voices of morning stars
and the notes that once rose
out of the throats of women
from cold mountain villages
at the fringe of the forest
calling over the melting
snow to the spirits asleep
in the green heart of the woods
Wake now it is time again
The Song of the Trolleys
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