Popping Dandelions
under the Buttermilk Sky

by John Hamilton Adams

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The dandelions are roaring again.
Beaverkill flows through my head.

Someone is probably there now, testing its fleeting edge.
Maybe Mac Francis or Harry Darbee is whipping a fly across its rippling back.
I sat in Mr. Kinch’s field popping dandelions under the buttermilk sky.

Morning the sun would pour fresh white onto my lazy featherbed.
Molly’s paws clattered across the linoleum floor as she cock-a-doodle dooed in dog tongue.
Mom made blueberry pancakes with maple syrup from Berry Brook farm.

In the noon we’d crawl cat trails through the briar bushes or drop berries from the covered bridge on confused bathers below.
The local ranger, Dan the Man, would laugh and curse at us as we fled to our hideout by the river’s roar. There we’d paint our faces with riverstone and skip rocks until the last number was counted.

On the way home we’d pinch the day’s bubbling tar puddles with our naked toes.
Cool green grass is soothing on hot sticky feet.

When the stars had soaked the day’s light,
the moths would bat dusty wings at my window.
In the Beaverkill I’d drift to sleep.

 


 

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