Surprise!

A woman swimmer from Toledo is recovering after a pelican apparently diving for fish slammed into her. The Fire Department Chief says he had never heard of a diving pelican colliding with anyone. The swimmer needed 20 stitches. The bird died. The Plain Dealer, Sunday, May 11, 2008

The Spring Lot

The “Spring Lot” was three acres out southeast across the road
Beyond the “crik” with minnows, frogs, the barnyard with its loads
Some years we’d plant Sudan Grass, tall, billows, green, in waves
In other years, we planted corn. Between the rows, dark caves

Lairs, from which we’d “hide n’ seek” and hunt for dangerous game
The rustling winds and dank dark earth held fears we couldn’t name
The lot was close and in full view of folks from our front porch
And through the trembling grass or corn, light flickered, as a torch

One day I lay beside the spring in warm and tender sun
And overturned a rock to watch the insects’ frantic run
I pondered their perceptions in a world I couldn’t see
And wondered if their eyes and minds could see that it was “ME”

The “ME” who made the calls about their right to live or die
I thought that this was how we were when looked at through God’s eyes
And then I saw wild strawberries, a sweet and tangy taste
And left that rock turned over, the insects to their fate

I often think, if there be gods, they must be like a child
Playing in a “Spring Lot” while we skitter, scared and wild
They'll never know the why, the what, the wonder of our days
'cause all they see are strawberries and blithely move away

South Mountain

South Mountain loomed, its camel’s hump a background for our days,
Was always there, foul wind or fair, it seemed to draw our gaze.
Its deep, dense woods with square hay-lots embedded in its hide,
Hid narrow roads that tunneled through just barely one-car wide.

Before electric lights came in, in nineteen forty six,
That mountain brooded in the night as by the River Styx.
My Dad and Uncles talked of ghosts, strange beings wrapped in white
That roamed those steep and winding roads on windy, rainy nights.

They spoke of driving home one night late from a Windham dance.
The drinks, the rain, their lights through trees, all put them in a trance.
The whole car saw this white-robed girl who walked the road that night,
And they never wondered why she walked or if she was alright.

Till several miles down the road they turned and started back,
And all they saw in headlight-glare was empty, narrow track.
No sign of footsteps, gaps or trails, or paths that she could take,
Just glistening leaves and swirling trees and nothing in her wake.

They drove on home to Hubbard Hill and put up for the night.
Their sleep of dreams with spectral themes and vague and floating fright.
They told this story many times,  with lots of sheepish grins,
And wondered why they drove on by and where their minds had been.

South Mountain still holds sway today, the hay lots all grown in,
The mountain face all forest now, its woods more dark and dim.
My Dad and Uncles all gone now, I miss their tales and talk,
And wonder if that lonesome wraith still walks her lonesome walk.
I wonder, does that lonely girl still walk her lonesome walk?