• fredericcone 10w

    Dry Dock Canoe

    I sit quietly,
    In the July stickiness of evening,
    On the high plains,
    Savoring a glass of iced espresso with heavy cream and a dash of raw turbinado sugar.

    The cicadas have awoken again,
    from their 18 year slumber,
    Their chittering echoes,
    Almost melancholy in nature,
    Through the trees,
    Black walnut, oak, ash, cottonwood,
    A simple symphony intermixed with Robin song and morning dove coos,
    And the occasional solitary caw from a Raven in the distance.

    Vibrant Rays of golden dusk blanket the uncut patch of wild prairie grass just off the back patio,
    The air thick and heavy with mist,
    Almost swirling with texture,
    Can be felt with a heaviness and richness, the colors of all that is touched seems to gloss and glow in an uncanny reality,
    There but not there,
    As if it shouldn't really exist outside of some mythological fairytale.

    Resting in the grass,
    Is an old aluminum canoe tilted to the side,
    The oars resting within calm and sedate,
    Awaiting a return to the meandering waters of the mighty Sioux,
    But for now,
    Just partly filled with the droplets of the spring's relentless thunderstorms,
    Dry docked as it were,
    Amid the prairie grasses and clover,
    Patient.

    Frederic Cone
    July 17th, 2020
    ©fredericcone