Stick Boat Days          

Look there: three white sails on the river.

Now a fourth coming from behind.

Back then, it was stick boats in the creek.

My stick was lean and hopeful; yet others

in a pack, floated by,

over ripples and through the hollow,

as eight skinny legs gave chase. 

Thistles, full masks in the channel, glide

side-ways in the autumn pull. Though,

not what you think, those boats out far,

weather reports and coffee cups in tow.

Because: if our stick boats bunched on a log?

We chucked rocks. No more.

No compass, nor clock, no vacation day

could set them free.

Over ripples and through the hollow,

as eight skinny legs gave chase.

Yet, when your boat finished first

under the train trestle's shadow,

and the boys said it was so;

it was something to say

or it wasn't anything at all.

There was a tree to climb, or

a rabbit to run, hill and dale,

as eight skinny legs gave chase

until the street lights called us home.