By J.R. Jurzynski

We called it Clarke’s pond and we were told not to go there.

Shimmying the fence or popping under where the nightly creatures made way was easy enough.

Once over or under onward through the front meadow, down an embankment, upstream along the brook, crossing a gravel road, onto the spillway.

Young legs and adventure were never tired.

A spit of water trickled down from a stagnated surface. Tall summer grasses hedged the sun’s side—pies and muck lazily trod by cloven hooves the other.

Upon the croak-it belched authority, “Mmwrava, mmrav, mrav.” 

The responsorial hymn, “Bbr, bbra, bbrava.”

A flat stone garnered from the gravel when properly flicked against the surface mirrored circular waveforms. Each new attempt a practice in the arts.

Always from the other side, from the yard, from beneath giant maples lining gravel, she would appear waving her cane in the air, summoning powers and yelling, “You kids get out of here.”

“Get off my property.”

“You don’t belong here.”

Not all scattered.

Eternally in her farm dress; fragile, strained, she would move closer down her gravel, raising cane and again, “Get off my property.”

“You don’t belong here.”

The land was hers yanked from history and as ancient as she was, she defended the right to call it hers.

Spillway separated bondage and freedom.

No longer a yell, nor raising cane nor vehemence she once more would offer, “You don’t belong here.”

Indelible etchings are unseparated by the sand.

We called her Rosetta.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s