Up near the August cottage, fences separate
the farms, keep livestock from wandering.
I sometimes drive these dirt roads,
the lake disappearing from view,
parents on porches drinking lemonade.
I remember the feeling of drifting home
after witnessing a barn float away
on the mirage of grass, the sky swallowing birds,
and the excitement of a child who wanted
to follow every road to it’s conclusion.
These dirt roads criss-cross every once in a while,
and I notice childhood on clotheslines,
the smell of dirt and rock stirred up,
and the black and white of cows.