I Was a 12 Year Old Rock Star

Today is Sunday. The smoke has diminished greatly. I will water the plants just perfectly. Later, on my walk, I may bring some type of goodies for the local fish babies. They are still grouped together in the shallows of a gentle stream. I claim that the local swamp was once a clay mine. They created a clay damn. Once they had well dug up enough hard core clay, they opened that barrier. Then the entire space filled with water. The farmer brothers (now new houses on that spot) would catch whatever, and maybe take something home. I mentioned in my book that they had filled their stream at the end in order to grow corn on “Old-Girl”‘s land. Back in ’55 she left all of her dishes and other kitchen items, on the side of their drive, and then entered the old folks home. You can still see where the out-houses, or wells had been dug. (Oh wait!!!!!!!!!!!!! Which was which?) In any case the one side of that area still has the better quality trees. The strawberry fields were replanted with a form of natural growth, and the old deer trails, along with the old farmer’s road, back into town, are stone trails. The trails are mowed a few times a year to reduce the chance of a tick hitching a ride. The common procedure involves nude, or mostly nude body checks. It would be the back, and anywhere else that one couldn’t determine on their own, to see if one of those little buggers got a free ride. Earlier, in the late spring I saw a male turkey along with a doe. Just last week a male deer with nice fuzzy horns was running toward me. (Is it because I am a vegetarian that animals like me better?) It had just passed by the older gal’s house, the lady that sits outside on a lawn chair. The “good ole’ boy” was running straight toward me, with myself being just a few feet from the oncoming traffic. At the last minute it turned to go through the nearby backyard. Alas, that is the life of a single, old man that lives near old farms. I have an unfinished poem/song for today.

A cascading flow of eminence, streams gladly toward an eloquence such placid scenes of an innocent day, filled with trifling idleness, within a florally intertwined essence set, a flow of graceful life and yet, in an innocent’s dreams rich bounties grow, so freely then soft from the vines.