In my little town dogs sleep on the street and act affronted when you drive on the bed.
My little town allocates resources in proportion to priorities. We have one school two churches and three bars.
The teenage boys in my little town gather by the pond after dark with big engines and little cans of beer. They steal the Stop sign, stone the streetlight, moon a passing car. But at least we know where they are.
In my little town some girls keep horses in their back yards. Above the dogs and surly boys, they cruise on saddles astride a big beast, dropping opinions as they meet.
On the Fourth of July the whole little town has a big picnic.
The ducks on the pond in my little town waddle across the road each afternoon a milling, quackling crowd round the door of the yellow house where the lady gives them grain. When it rains, they swim on the road or sleep there, like dogs.
On a cold morning the woodsmoke of stoves lingers like fog in my little town.
We hold village meetings where a hundred-odd cranks and dreamers ***** for a grudging consensus.
We cling to the side of our mountain building homes, making babies beneath trees of awesome height. We work too hard, play too rough, and sense daily something sweet about living in our little town.