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.
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
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