Strange bird, br His song remains secret. br He worked too hard to read books. br He never heard how Sherwood Anderson br Got out of it, and fled to Chicago, furious to free himself br From his hatred of factories. br My father toiled fifty years br At Hazel-Atlas Glass, br Caught among girders that smash the kneecaps br Of dumb honyaks. br Did he shudder with hatred in the cold shadow of grease? br Maybe. But my brother and I do know br He came home as quiet as the evening. br br br He will be getting dark, soon, br And loom through new snow. br I know his ghost will drift home br To the Ohio River, and sit down, alone, br Whittling a root. br He will say nothing. br The waters flow past, older, younger br Than he is, or I am.