The Rural Voice, 1980-06, Page 8The County Life
by Michelle Battle, 17, R.R.3, Walkerton
As I look out from my window sill,
Life is so peaceful, quiet and still.
As I look out from my window pane,
Cars are beeping and changing from lane
to lane.
As I look down the country road,
Our neighbours are passing with a gigantic
hay load.
As I look down the paved highway,
Traffic lights are in constant changing
rays.
I hear dogs barking and chasing
neighbours cats,
And the phone ringing for friendly neigh-
bour chats.
I hear people screaming and tires always
squeeling,
Sometimes they're so loud I hit the
apartment ceiling.
I run outside and breathe in the clean fresh
air,
I've got freedom and all that nature has to
share.
I walk outside and the sky looks black,
The world is so gray and dull, there's so
much it lacks.
I jump on the old swings and can sing all I
like,
Or can go the open fields to fly a kite.
1 try to cross the street and nearly get hit,
In order to reach my destination I have to
edge slowly, bit by bit.
I go to the orchard and pick fruits of all
kinds,
And just when it's noon, hear the
churches' sweet clear chimes.
I hurry in the supermarket, searching for
good deals,
And look disgustingly at the girl who
shoplifts and steals.
I hang out the wash for the gentle clear
breeze to dry,
And then its time for a baseball game and 1
say goodbye.
I go to the laundry mat and put in my
money.
There's no time to waste since my only day
off is Sunday.
I walk out our gravel lane every morning in
order to catch the bus,
It makes my brothers and I wipe our eyes
because it creates such a dust.
I hesitantly walk towards the brick
building, with the kids surrounded in
smoke,
The smell is so bad it makes me cough and
choke.
I hurry and help mom set the picnic table.
And always get a good whiff from the
nearby stable.
I put the chain on my bike and lock up my
car,
I can't trust anyone, even though ex-
hausted coming so far.
So now won't you tell me which you prefer.
The country or city? Which,
makes your blood stir?
I'll always remember the years spent on
the farm,
With the food it provides, shelter it gives
and all its charm.
I'll always be satisfied in my jeans and
faded plaid shirt,
Not taking into consideration the fancy
hairdos, the real tight pants or the lastest
styled skirts.
Be Careful When oiirj,
TONY GINGRICH, 11
HOLYROOD, ONT.
The Cruelty
of Nature
BY LORI HILLMAN
R.R.#2 ATWOOD, ONTARIO
AGE 18 yrs.
One tree:
Silhouetted against the
oranges and pinks of the east,
Minutes pass, and the
morning hues are dispersed with
the cold,
blues and gray of daylight.
One bird:
A red-tailed hawk,
perched high in the leafless
skeleton.
The moon: slowly fading as the
brilliance of freshly -fallen snow
is illuminated by the new dawn.
One hare:
A snow -shoe with its stealthy advance
imprinted in the snow, only to be
dusted away by the cool, light
breeze.
A small bush stirs in the wind
and the hare is stopped -
statue -like, ear perked
waiting....
seconds pass like hours
with tension wound tight
like a spring.
The stillness falls -like death.
One drive:
And the struggles begins.
'The hawk is not so young and
careless
as the hare. Talons tear into
tender, lean flesh. The first
ascension -prey gripped tightly
-fails.
One solo:
Vertical climb,
Only to retrace glides
and hit, once more, upon
its prey.
The hare has weakened.
One cry:
Shrill, like that of a child,
As the hawk perches once more
and ravenously tears
into still warm flesh.
PG. 8 THE RURAL VOICE/JUNE 1980