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The Barrens By Samuel Wharton we called it, though this small pocket of woods off the expressway was anything but. A hundred yards of rough, exhausted terrain like we imagined the old forests of the world must have been- our very own storm-drainage ditch, cluttered with the leavings of a thousand storms or more! We came here after heavy rains, bikes kicking up a spray from the still-wet streets, to glean what we could of the city's lost belongings. O the poor things that had been forgotten! A jeweled crown for a child queen, placed boldly on a live-oak's branch, marked this as a sacred place, the heart of our neighborhood domain. Our cathedral had its columns: sumac and cottonwood trees that arched and met far above our heads. We balanced wheels-tricycle, steering, spinning, even one potter's wheel-on the larger rocks, erecting cairns meant to warn infidels away, protect our sanctuary from the barbarians down the block. Toy boats we dredged up from the bottom, restored their awkward sails, set them seafaring again. They drifted down the culvert into a cavernous concrete pipe, the holiest of our holies, greatest of our unknowns, place of mysteries where no one dared to go. What a world we imagined! Ourselves the redeemers of outcast things, rescuers of flood remains, little saints of found objects. And so we spent our childhoods in a ditch, consoling what exiles we could, sending some on their way, helping others to again be of use, while the careless city swelled around us, forgot us. © Copyright 2004, Samuel Wharton, All Rights Reserved. |
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Document last modified on: 01/06/2007