At nine, I stepped out my back door
for an evening walk the house
stuffy like a padded room
a block from the house
Johnson street for the Johnson plastics factory
a placard hung on a chain reading
no motorized vehicles
the gate to an Amish buggy path
I turned my toes into the path
picking up my pace
the lights of Middlefield town faded out of sight
the way wended the borders of thick forest and fields
the moon shone like a black light making trees and rocks
glow with their auras
the Big Dipper poured fairy dust on my head
primeval trees looked like the walls of castles
I can hear my feet padding down
the buggy-wheel crisscrossed mud path
the voices in my head went silent
if I screamed at the top of my lungs
town ears wouldn't hear me 
just crickets, frogs, rabbits, elves, and fairy
this siesta from the cities and towns is like a drug
I remembered my ragamuffin,
and cried, not from sorrow
but for joy








3.0 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson