It was wet cans of PBR from a Coleman cooler
and pulls of Bulleit whisky warm
on a Friday night.
It was green Jalapeño poppers wrapped in fatty bacon
next to glistening short-cut rib rows
in a twilight kitchen.
It was pickup trucks frolicking in rusted skirts
over deep grass fields,
while hunters gathered fungi at the midday shade.
It was alabaster ashes of last evening’s fire
smoldering, becoming ghost stale
near metal pasture gates left wide open.
It was small brown trout caught in cold streams
bleeding, below an Amherst hillside
melting in the last light of a springtime Saturday.
It was Driftless region bluff’s strong straight-wind
carrying Johnny Cash’s “Sunday Morning Coming Down”
into folding valleys asunder from a driver’s side window.
It was a weekend’s mosaic of moments,
laced in and strung up together,
of oscillating seconds and intrinsic perspective.
Oh, it was…