There was an old house at the top of the hill; they said it would be fine.
But they said its owner was mad– mad for building a home
That faced head on into the scorching Texan sun at noon,
For building at barely accessible height; he was too frail to climb stairs.

We spoke to him once. He seemed nice enough,
Not like the nasty old man we heard about from friends.
Still, we wondered if he was mad– that would explain
His distance, his house so far away.

The rains that year were heavy and tasted of the north.
We, the children, laughed in the change, having never experienced
This kind of weather that swept away our yards and flooded into our homes.
But our mad old man, distanced upon his little hill, remained above it all.