Brook in the Woods

The woods out back called us    deeper where leaves circled down        off the maples, where the brook            we lay in all summer

had run in trickling tears—    & now had stopped crying,        its stone bed empty. We            skipped from bank to bank

along its length like a zipper closing—    up to the fast road where the water        would slip beneath            & the unknown world

on the other side was enough    to stop us. We were listening that day        for the croaking of frogs            at the wrong time of year—

jelly jars in hand—    little schoolgirls unschooled        in mating dances & heard                boots crushing on gravel

between the road and the sad    yellow grasses of autumn.        Watched shadows rolling                & two men crossing

into our trees    in t-shirts whiter than        the flickering light in            the lowering afternoon sun

—nothing in hand    but those long guns they held        loose in one hand as if tenderly            crossing the street, kid in tow

—all that sort of love—but then the sudden    lunge—like a leashed dog rearing.        “Go home!” the old one barks,            “or I’ll call the cops!”

& flicks that long barrel up    & points somewhere toward us—        somewhere in home’s direction. Time            enough to see what you call

stature. See the plaid of his woolly    trapper’s cap, flaps snapped up        at attention, gray hairs            poking out around his ears. Enough

time to see the younger one’s buzz cut    & something like eyes hiding        behind his black-rimmed glasses            thick & opaque as bathroom windows.

Time enough to feel the weirdness    of life on the other side        of the gun—little squirrels. That hint            of clarity. We turned our backs

to them & scattered like shot. It was something    in the way we heard all the sounds—        our feet blundering, twigs snapping,            the wind across our ears—

to count on nothing    but the mercy of a falling        canopy surrounding us & feel            what it must be like to a brook

rushing in springtime. Finding our way out    to lawn’s edge where grass meets prairie,        we fell sprawling breathless on its crewcut            & laughed until the sun

went away    & something other        than childhood began            to leave us cold.