Short Short Story about Ohio

We're on a gravel path lined with old grey fences, deep in rural Ohio. Grasshoppers with
striped brown legs beat against the boards and the timothy grass and the bare legs of my
sisters and me. Just over the fence is a railroad, still in use after 90 years, even with
tall grass growing up between the trestles. 1993 is timothy grass and learning the names
of insects and the birthdays of great aunts who saw the trains go by and wished for a way to make it to Detroit and a job. I learned to love the names of weeds, fleabane and plantain and
chicory, the stubborn plants that endure every change and year. We ran through the tall
grass to an old playground with decaying wooden see-saws, and gasped at the noise when
the freight train went by.