Feathers everywhere on a stump dented with blood,
the hanging carcass of a taken doe
Sheltering in wavy fields of grass from thunderstorms
and creeks whose principle occupants were snapping turtles.

Campy parades with glitter and glossed pageant winners
a trumpet of patriotic fervor dazzling independence celebrants
the drill of a cicada into husks of wilting trees
the dredge of horse sleds over red clay fields.

There was pong and tennis and spaced invaders
interspersed with dust bowls and tin can homes
set on long windy roads over bridges sometimes washed out
so regularly that nearby towns soon decided paving was in order.

Weekends were so much longer in my memories.


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