South of Chandler

An abrupt end to paved road
Began with a deeply rutted lane
Of mounded sand and wet red clay
Too narrow for two passing cars,
For only one fit the sodden tracks
That led on for quite a ways,
'Round three hills weedy green,
O'er a swollen creek risin' high,
By a tumblin' fence of old barbed ward;
And while the Olds' bumpy gait
'Bout put me right to sleep,
An open windows airy port
Let in perfume of country scent
Blendin' fresh manure with cottonwood
In a bucholic receipe of so much more,
As from a browin' pasture's musty hay
Baled and laid in checkered rows'
I perked and caught the handsel,
Which drove my senses wild aflame.

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