Cabin on the Pond

November 23, 2007

The oaks rustle impatiently in the
soft wind. On the loose dirt lie piles
of contorted nails and imperfect boards.
The space between the man and boy
grows as they repeatedly measure the
angles of the beams. And the frogs
start chirping at the bottom of the
empty post holes.


The dirty heat squeezes their chests and
arid wind sears the day into their faces.
The man catches a splinter and his
blood drips onto the boards. The
stubborn sun stays long in the sky
and glares off the pond. The boy
collapses in the dirt, sipping warm water.


Chilly wind whips the leaves, they dance
between the posts and spiral into the air,
caught in the palpable excitement. Timbers
slide into place with a resounding slap.
The trees sway and bend down to peer into
the clearing beside the pond. The boy sits
on the frame of the roof, looks out at the
pond and smiles.


Daring raindrops splatter against the roof
boards. The boy’s knees glide along the floor behind the sand paper in his rough
hand. A mallard lightly splashes into the
water and playfully swims in the rain. The
boy stands up, stretches his groaning back And confidently stomps his boot on the floor.

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