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Then she went on, parting her way from side to side with the cane, through the whispering field
She followed the track, swaying through the quiet bare fields, through the little strings of trees silver in their dead leaves, past cabins silver from weather, with the doors and windows boarded shut, all like old women under a spell sitting there.
In a ravine she went where a spring was silently flowing through a hollow log
Old Phoenix bent and drank. Sweet-gum makes the water sweet, she said, and drank more.
Nobody know who made this well, for it was here when I was born
The track crossed a swampy
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