Amish girls in pastel dresses,
like pale pink and blue hibiscus,
wear white bonnets 
and flip flops,
carry brushes
in buckets.

I wallk behind them
in silence near turrets
and wraparound porches
listening for whispers 
of last-century lectures,
melodies from past concerts
hidden under
the hostas and zinnias.

I’m not sure why they hold
my attention. Their freshness?
An air of private camaraderie?
Such modesty amid our shorts
and sundresses.

I wonder about their leaving–
corn fields and chickens
with no chaperones
for day work in Eden?

They don’t attend lectures
or concerts in the village
of abundance.  They may feel
like black-eyed susans,
stretched toward an unfamiliar sun.

We exchange nods.  Before
I can ask a question, 
one girl makes a covert move–
drops a cigarette,
crushes it in ground cover.