By Laurie Junkins

I watch at the front window
as you move in unison between the trees
then down the long, curved driveway
to where flooding from our neighbor’s pond
pools in our pasture, then trickles
in a winter stream on down the valley.

You crouch on either side of the runoff,
like twins in black rubber boots,
muddy-kneed jeans, and the worn caps
of last year’s baseball team. You move
in a choreography of fraternal instinct,
standing, turning, circling around the water
where boats built from wood scraps bob and swirl
in the gentle current. Now you bend
to begin your race; now you leap up and holler,
voices cracking off the crystal sky;
now you run to fetch your boats and begin again,
the backs of your necks pinkening in the place
where I still sneak kisses while you sleep.

This is all I ever wanted for you:
eagles surfing the wind overhead,
the orange tabby watching, ears flicking
from the edge of the woods; then later,
your muddy boots on our gravel driveway,
your dripping boats held in cold-numbed hands,
the men you will someday become
carried in the ring of your voices,
held in the shadows of the coming dusk.

Copyright 2007 Laurie Junkins