It simply sat in the meadow, tall sprouting trees, heads of wild flowers and decorative grasses hugging its base as if to keep some internal modesty. The wood was soft and muted reflecting the tones of a dove's breast. Where had it come from? When was the last wooden boxcar in use on the rusting rail systems of the landscape. What stories of hope, acclaim, devastation or danger could it voice if we would but pause to listen?