He runs far and stays away on school nights
Chasing fish, grasshoppers, girls
Grass stained knees and orange blood on a sleeve
The fields stare back at him from class
The mountains fill the room
Teacher stuffing letters into the pockets of the good kids
Who look and listen as the air conditioning blows
He runs far and listens to the old timers
Spinning yarns on benches built by their fathers
Making lite of the broken systems
That allowed the fishing to get so bad
The tall cans never get empty in their hands
He punches the boy from lunch that poked his ribs
And scratches his eyes in a bloody fight
Banging skulls against the gymnasium door frame.
Teeth in knuckles and hair between teeth.
After school he ran to the riffle in old Jensens creek
To burn and drown the note sent home
That he wasn’t afraid to die.
The season is here. Plans have been hatched and more are coming. Gonna be a busy 2 months. I can’t wait to recharge the batteries.
Good luck to you all. Full freezers, bellies, hearts.