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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