The sounding
Johnclarestokes
In the early morning in the deepest dreaming
They come sounding
Scrape of walker upon the concrete
Spin of cycle gears in the street
Shuffles from a little boys feet
Sounds of son after adventures far
And I wake and peer into the dawn
Perchance the sounds were returning home
And upon the threshold
It wasn’t Roger
It wasn’t daddy
It wasn’t Landon
It wasn’t Nathaniel
It wasn’t mother
But Tucker.
Today three years ago I found Tucker out front gone, no visible signs of injury. A mystery.
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