You might think this is some Jack Kerouac
on the road thing but it’s not.
Along the road there are spiky yellow
flowers ready to show their faces to
the sun. The rains of previous days have
left wet gravel and flat black beetles and
earthworms going nowhere or everywhere.
Sparkling raindrops cling to wind sculpted
grasses like a giant paint brush flattened some
and ignored others. Goldfinches flit and bob
along their way while a mother blackbird
feigns a broken wing to lead away from
the nest hidden in the bushes.
The gravel crunches under foot as a
Heron watches from atop a boat lift.
Tomorrow, locals and tourists will
wet their boats and boards and skis
in the lake and cook food on
wood/charcoal/gas grills and remember
the dead that gave their lives .
Exploded cattails spew their seeds,
dripping dry foamy life stuff
to the ground. The sun lights water spray
raised by cars going too fast on their
way to church or the boat launch or
wherever people go on a sunny Sunday
morning. It’s a cinch ole’ Jack never
walked down my road in his travels,
it being too out of the way. Nothing here,
only life. Not much to write about.