Drought-struck leaves float on the current,
Curl behind water-stained logs,
Making June appear August.
Empty beer cans collect in a bucket,
Awaiting a metallic reincarnation, growing plentiful
As chipmunks in a wetter year.

He knows no adventure, only memory,
Prodding barbecue coals with a poker
Made from the strut of a swinging bridge.
"I cut grass all day, I drink all night.
What else is there? There was ..."
A forest ranger in his heart.

"Fishing's bad. The creek's down.
I remember two summers ago ..."
--- Yeah, like we all do, or want to.
I remember two summers ago
As I sip my own beer and scratch
In mosquito-rich darkness.

6/19/84

Appeared in Wind, vol. 15, no. 55, 1985
 
 

Index   Fall 1977