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Round Iron Markers

Round Iron Markers William Jolliff Appalachian Heritage, Volume 20, Number 1, Winter 1992, pp. 30-31 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1992.0003 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436444/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:57 GMT from JHU Libraries 30 Round Iron Markers Out tramping fall-plowed fields in April rain, I stepped a fence to neighbor's woods, a grove I hadn't walked before, in memory. Leaves and branches kept me from the muddy floor of a path cut clean between two stands— one young trees, one just scrub, and none worth cutting, save in a winter pinch. So the woodsmen left it all—just worth standing. But then an intuition snagged my cap, like the eyes of a cat or a barn owl watching when you come home late and chore in darkness: It was nothing, nothing but the iron face of wagon wheels, standing by the woodlot gate as if some man in overalls had stopped a bit to rest his team, then got bewildered, lost his place, time, maybe his wife. The wagon stood and waited till the wood had burned away, decayed, leaving four iron wheels, still standing. Far more likely, you know, I know, http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Round Iron Markers

Appalachian Review , Volume 20 (1) – Jan 8, 2014

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

William Jolliff Appalachian Heritage, Volume 20, Number 1, Winter 1992, pp. 30-31 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1992.0003 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/436444/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 20:57 GMT from JHU Libraries 30 Round Iron Markers Out tramping fall-plowed fields in April rain, I stepped a fence to neighbor's woods, a grove I hadn't walked before, in memory. Leaves and branches kept me from the muddy floor of a path cut clean between two stands— one young trees, one just scrub, and none worth cutting, save in a winter pinch. So the woodsmen left it all—just worth standing. But then an intuition snagged my cap, like the eyes of a cat or a barn owl watching when you come home late and chore in darkness: It was nothing, nothing but the iron face of wagon wheels, standing by the woodlot gate as if some man in overalls had stopped a bit to rest his team, then got bewildered, lost his place, time, maybe his wife. The wagon stood and waited till the wood had burned away, decayed, leaving four iron wheels, still standing. Far more likely, you know, I know,

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

There are no references for this article.