Some place that could harbor
the largest fugitive gorilla
away from prying, pointing fingers
or the smallest butterfly
from a praying mantis.

Like the ad libitum
pause of a musical phrase,
there beneath and behind the holly bushes
against the church wall
and sitting on dry and cool dirt

-I could hide for the evening-

fifteen feet from Main street

Just as a porch swing,
bound away and raised
to the ceiling,
sways in the subtle breeze of autumn,

a recollection,
placed among other words
is a union
to a tiny space
and how big it now seems.

It is one of those spring days where
the moon rises early,
while the sun sags low in the sky.
The trees are in that ‘between’ stage,
starkly barren
against the blue sky,
but with a sheen of green.

My son and I walk the levee by a lake.
We look out at solid white sailboats,
though one has an orange sail

-a challenge to just to be different.

I walk slightly ahead of him,
because he doesn’t like people
to walk behind him.

I show him my swagger.

He shows me his zombie shuffle.

We both raise a hand
to block the sun,
as we trace its declination
on the water.

He hums Eye of the Tiger
-to encourage the stair joggers
making the journey to the top-

and says he can only remember the tagline.

I think of the song
from Beethoven’s famous ninth symphony,
and move ahead
with a shuffle and a swagger.