| Butler Pennsylvania 6 Winter Afternoon The sounds of your mills have reached me at night and sometimes I think I hear the steam engines stomping in the yards out behind the hill or whistling like they did at the crossing by the creek on entering town— but never did I see a sky like yours on waning winter afternoons when I, a boy of four would find myself standing at a frosted window scratching through ice then staying there rapt, gazing until light had given way to darkness. Next Home |