Summers with Hemingway

 
We lived on a gravel block
with a curve in it.
Down around the curve
there was a stop sign with giant
weeds grown up around it.  

There were heavy brambles
that lined the roads,  
and a row of trees in the distance.
On our bicycles, we would
head east in that direction.  

The white and yellow
summer fields blended together
as we were pedaling,
quickly bending
to the left and to the right;
us gaining some speed for cruising.  

We'd ride a mile in the heat
and dust over the decrepit gravel,
and when we got to the bridge,
we'd ditch our bikes
there in the depth of the bushes.

It was treacherous in trying
to get down to the creek
through the brush and rock;
we were dumb,
our summer legs were naked.


The easiest way was to go
over the side of the bridge
and grab on to the heavy fencing
that ran from the road
to the ravine below us,
and wire climb straight down.    

Maybe we'd get run over,
maybe we wouldn't.  
Maybe we'd fall,
maybe we wouldn't.  
We would have to think
about that later on
during the preaching we got over it.  

We never thought that far ahead
to broken limb or death
when there was dreams to conquer
and summer days to fill
with hours down in the creek bed,
climbing rocks, and hunting
crawdad downstream a little.  

We had dreams to go and conquer.