Weekends in Bush Valley

Always flannel, mouthing big cigars, and coffee,

In the cold, smoke would rise from a few.

 

Sawdust and dirty dogs,

Not insulting, just talking, they were barking,

There was cussing at ideas, and the sky blue.

 

No need to ask why, things just happened.

 

An old Ford pickup,

We were loading the flatbed back.

 

Playing in dirt, waiting on something, or someone to make tracks-

What had occurred?

Occupied with running around, yet relaxed.

 

-Shooting a rusted BB gun at beer cans and stray cats.

(AND I ACTUALLY DID SHOOT MY EYE OUT.)

 

Hoses and a wood splitter,

An old horse named Drifter.

Hydraulics and the sounding of the oak wood’s crack-working toward a heart-attack.

 

Donuts and words,

We conquered a bit of the forest and this part of rich black earth; a necessity of warmth, and a peace that calms the nerves.

 

No cell.

No net.

No Beatnick hipster belief for the minimally absurd, chasing fame, and admiration of friends.

Just content with technology and life as of just yet,

 

And a few words we had learned:

Play,

Love,

And Respect.

 

In nature we couldn’t forget,

The smell brings back memories directly to the present tense.

 

Landlines and old relatives,

Hardened and happy, they prospered simple, and simply prospered.

Good life they lived.

 

Weekends in the valley as a child,

We were never so satisfied to work so hard.

Small towns remain so rich.

 

Of me it is much more than a part.

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