In times of peace we listen to music over the hills and drag carcasses to the train station. Music and carcasses win a fulfillment of the peacely penitence of time in our way. Shadows of fantastic skid to a knowing concern, for carcasses or the result of their presence. The sky means to be clear but never can finish its sentence.
There might be a volcano in store for Brockton, where trucks park without resistance. In the formal days when Worcester existed and trains would arrive with carcasses, the humans involved in feeling things loomed over the better things.
The hills were music in themselves. Not of themselves, just the satisfying rumble of plates that, because of God's grace, made homelands and seaports for us, and surprised us with volcanoes. This is a special God.
Special God brings peace, which is a situation of gravity determined by facts distinguished from inference. Inference is when someone thinks of something; implication covers when someone wants to make someone infer. Thus peace, it was someone's idea. O God of someone who had an idea, thank you for the tone poem!
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