In those days
every moment was a hunch
and pause was full.
An afternoon became itself
simply.
Freshie with the aunts, paced
to the shush ah of the beach’s breathing
(possibly the boys
would like to learn canasta?), scented
by the overhanging cedars, in whose shadows,
wings ablur,
their iridescent needles pointing nowhere
dragonflies were dozing.
Sometimes, if a bat
flew down the chimney, evenings would erupt
in harmless panic, laughter, shrieks,
kids and uncles flailed with anything
that came to hand. One
was volleyed with a tennis racket and became
an old burnt-out cigar.
Whip-poor-wills, then
waking on the porch
embroidered by a warbler’s soft motifs, all,
the whole thing taken for granted.
The only rule was not to know the rules