We played in rain, we played in snow, we played by lantern light.
Our fingers ached, our throats were raw.
Every night we sang all night.
Then, at dawn, under a blood-streaked sky,
under those scarred and dangerous stars--
how the winds rocked the car,
how the roads misunderstood us!
I don’t know who we thought we were.
I don’t know why we thought
we were anybody at all.
[from Chestnut Ridge, a verse-history-in-progress of southwestern Pennsylvania]