Fair day props - light aircraft -
resonated
inexplicably as they always do
within me,
as it seems they have from firsts,
as all my times could be drawn past on a thread
following,
as might a banner in tow,
advertising nothing.
On Bulkeley Hill,
we leaned against one sodden play-tree,
felled
and stripped long ago to be balanced on,
climbed and perched.
Joe,
needing refuge from dogs,
risked its slippery algae to be up.
Parties trailed across the flat top, leaf-mulched
off-trail,
muddy beneath a mat of leaves
bore human weight,
sinking elastically
more than a little at each step.
Freed dogs
nosed where they would,
hardly ever near Joe,
their masters well-recovered from the climb,
happy enough only descent beckoned.
Pigeons on the crown were sermonizing
and crows were tearing up the air below,
but as we moved off,
in circumspection
to be aware,
for Joe,
of where dogs were,
above us in the boughs the chiffchaff called
'Chip-chip, seep-seep,'
first week of February.
