Under the Oak
Sunday’s rainstorm fed the marsh with box elder flowers and papery samaras; the whirlybirds and pollen float like a verdant oil slick across the shallow water.
We stroll past, hoping to spot a foal along the wooded embankment. Hearing a quickfire rustle -- like tavern matches clumsily struck
on their paper book -- we stop In the shade to look. We crane our necks over wild raspberry bushes, their thorns clawing at the loose threads in our polyester shorts.
Standing under the oak, its heavy leaves point at the pavement, hanging over our heads like a thousand serrated knives.
We see nothing but the burst sheath of a cattail: downy seeds trembling in the wind, gripping the bending reed.
I spot a worm twirling in the dirt beside your bootheel and I pull at your shoulder to save it from your giant steps.










