THE SONG OF THE OLD HOBO
The clack, clack, clack of a train of railroad cars going over a bridge is an early morning fog holds for some the same feeling as the call of a loon across a lonely northern lake.
The whine of a train whistle approaching a crossing can stir an inner feeling of loneliness perhaps. Or optimistic pessimism. Maybe it's pessimistic optimism. Conjure!
A foggy morning can elicit those types of feelings. Even with nothing else going on other than the sound of perpetual rusting of the metal in the bridge.
The whine of a train whistle approaching a crossing can stir an inner feeling of loneliness perhaps. Or optimistic pessimism. Maybe it's pessimistic optimism. Conjure!
A foggy morning can elicit those types of feelings. Even with nothing else going on other than the sound of perpetual rusting of the metal in the bridge.
Can we actually hear the deterioration of that metal if we stop long enough to let the inner mind wander.
God it's often good to be a photographer, we can always go back there on a moment's notice.
God it's often good to be a photographer, we can always go back there on a moment's notice.
By the way, do they still call them Hobos? Are have they lost all the romance and now just called homeless persons. It seems to me that there is a difference.
Oh and for you ladies, and maybe even for some of you weird men out there like me. Don't forget Aubrey's site.
http://www.high-heeledlove.com/2012/01/shoe-lust-saturday-1712.html
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