Crossroads

Rotting in the wet gray air the railroad depot stands deserted under still green trees. In the fields cold begins an end. There were other too-long-postponed departures. They left, finally, because of well water gone rank, the smell of fungus, the chill of rain in chimneys. The spot is abandoned even in memory. They knew, locking doors upon empty houses, to leave without regret is to lose title to one home forever.