Dance of ants compiling sawdust, compels us to
Trample, mow, flee to the inviting woods. Our short
Caravan meanders, leans against boulder, attached lichen here
Crash down on leaves and rocks waiting for dark,
Bare stars, glowing mosses, a second light show that
Regales millipedes, azaleas, forsythia. Outdoor sounds
Jar us awake, it’s 2am, we rise in dew-sparkled clothes,
Veering through trees, over rotten wood and rock holes, a deer
Kicks a whip, or jumps, startled by late-night intruders mistaken
For hunters. You can’t know it now, but this night marks the
Epicenter of your youth, from which all events will emanate
Without outward boundary, but in three hundred sixty
Degrees. Bound into it all, bring that screwgee* low and inside.
First Letters represent those in attendance 11/13/2015:
*A Screwgee is a reverse curve ball thrown in baseball that spins in toward right handed batters from a right handed pitcher.