Kilgore

 

On a day for flying o'er the ground,

On two wheels I came around

To Kilgore.

 

Coasting to a stop,

Off my bike I hopped

And absorbed abundance.

 

Radiance hung high

In the cloudless, blue sky.

Hawks soared nearby

And counted mice.

 

In the pasture

Across the road,

A fallen barn rested.

 

Quarter horses grazed

And when it was right,

Pounded their power

Into the green ground.

 

Kicking their heels

Like children at a party,

They galloped with a rhythmic sound.

 

Their manes and tails flowed

Like flags in the wind.

 

I could stay all day

Never needing

Another meeting.

 

I came to taste the fruits of Camus Creek,

So I mounted my Honda and rolled northwest

To the best spot for fishing.

 

After a few miles and turns,

Passing through several gates,

I could hardly wait.

 

I snaked my way

Through willows

To some open water.

 

In no time a brook trout

Beat his friends to

A bite of bait.

 

Soon, six speckled fish

Wiggled their way

Into my creel.

 

All ingredients blended

Like a German-chocolate cake.

 

It tasted like peace:

An azure, lazy sky,

A motorcycle on which to fly,

Horses meandering in the meadow,

Birds chirping, darting,

Laughing like women in love,

Freshly cleaned brook trout,

An aluminum pan, small yet stout,

Heat for cooking,

Rich, yellow butter,

And salt and pepper.

 

At Kilgore

I forget my earning-and-spending race,

And scheduling the time and space

To come home.

 

Allen Hackworth 2000