I cannot escape the sound of scraping metal

Low whistles blowing through open windows

Alone in the hills of Nova Scotia

It is early Spring, call it late Winter?

Perhaps somewhere in between.

The snow has melted.

The trees are bare.

Just me and Gloria in this giant old house.

And yet, always there.

Always the sound of scraping metal, and

Low whistles blowing through open windows.

Back in the height of summer,

I am sprawled out on a mattress in Montreal.

The sun is slowly setting

And I am in an almost empty room

Stealing the seconds

From every remaining ray.

Impending darkness,

Solitude.

The sound of scraping metal

To take me away

From so many empty days.