CROW RIVER WILDERNESS

“It don’t get much better than this,”

As my father might have said:

You’re at beaver creek, dark falls

On cottonwoods and; willows

and; the campfire. Buffalo grass waves

Knee-high in the breeze good-bye

To prairie winter. Light wind lulls birds to sleep,

You with tin mug of vodka and; grandson

In tent with father son who pitched it,

Stoked the fire and; you, thankful

Fortune got you warm, love

Links you with dying flame, spring’s breath

Tickles new leaves, caress as light

As pianists bring high notes alive,

Usher in the deep and; rainy sleep.


June 8, 2014