Dewy maple leaf drops
tap tent. I hear a call and answer from
opposite sides of property,
synthesizer bird Mike says.
Off the ridge stepping over
down wood through
fresh moist soil the
rotting limbs and pale yellow wet leaves
to an old stone foundation and
rusted wheel or tool, maybe
pulled behind mules and
a well. Stone lined
and a quarter full.
Back at camp fire, smoke
hangs in trees, split wood and a pile
of saplings for lean-to roof already
this morning.
Sun’s low in grey
east sky, and when I tell Mike about
the well he says, Fuckin-a man.
Let’s go have a look.
Chris Bevens | pedalpoet 