Durham High School - Messenger Yearbook (Durham, NC)

Page 27 text:

He ' d wakened chilled beyond the point That any heavy clothes could warm, And yet unwilling to hunt the wood To build a fire, and cook some food. He could not guess what early hour The cold, (and God knows what), had chosen. To shake him from unsoothing rest. Nor how much longer he ' d have until The skies, their fourth day clouded then. Would loose themselves with snow or rain. The ashes from the last night ' s fire Were blown and scattered by the wind That started as he ' d tried to sleep. And gone on through his shameful dreams. It even now could force itself Upon his fire and in his bed. He ' d have to eat his breakfast cold. And then he ' d leave, though ill prepared. ' —Ronnie Clark

Page 26 text:

GATHERING INDIAN RELICS Early morning, I walk the furrows Seeking vestiges of cruder lives than mine, Tools of chisled flint, fragmented earthenware Interred by wind and rain. Unearthed by plow. Back and forth I tread the field. Head bowed. Often stooping to crumble soil Off an artifact, or more likely Just a stone. Now and then I raise my head To survey the contours of the land. And seeing it as something other than a cornfield I pause. Noon, I walk the furrows still. The farmer ' s harvest is not yet planted; I reap one seeded long ago. — David Fein

Page 28 text:

His hand brown And my hand white Touched in the sad darkness That hid all else. And in that sad darkness His voice was not brown, Nor white, But just his voice. And yet his words Instilled a fear. He spoke of things I did not understand And did not want to hear. I cried. Don ' t say such things. He smiled. If I don ' t, others will. I must. And like the rain That made beaded patterns On the dusty window pane. Like frosted glass In public places. His words came And went away. —Sarah Vincent