the cool creek calls me back

the soft pink of an early sky
lightening as seen in the west through the stands of evergreens as i poke my head up out of the sleeping bag layers
while the sun rises to the east
 _______
baja or bust we joke on our way out
driving the same route we drove yesterday
but this time with eileen in her toyota truck with the cattle mover on the front
and our toes chilly with the cool of morning
the swallows circling around the one barn they seem to always circle around and the sheep sheared and grazing in fields behind fences
and that one strange garden on the left that just seems to be pots on concrete/astroturf fenced in as we roll past
_______
the little birdling sounds that eleicit sole and i peering over the creekside fence
to find baby quail probably about the size of one of those standard plastic easter eggs
rustling about and their parents too
skittering to/fro
_______
dust rising from the paths,
spangles and glitter and pasties and loin cloths and shor shorts and galactic leggings and crinolines and busties and tie dye and wigs and faerie wings and dragon costumes and paper mache rattles and giant bubbles and the blast and bass of marching bands moving past 
this is the tiniest slice as observed from a careful distance
of the oregon country fair
and all the while i’m taking massage reservations
on a color-coded sheet
pressed onto the surface of a clipboard

_______
no street shoes reads the sign outside the dance pavillion tent
and so we doe-see-doe and allaman right and balance and swing
barefoot minus those
who came with their dance shoes packed
away somewhere

_______
give her some elbows,
beat her up a little bit
michael from minnesota in the lime green says
about me on the massage chair which i like the sound of so
later i point to him and demand some elbows
_______
the slices of chocolate mint pie treat
that sole cuts for eileen and i
and the risk of sleeplessness eileen and i take
by partaking
_______

another night of sleeping under a moon-filled sky
and the great trees that canopy over me
reaffirming my decision not to not sleep in the zone of party domes and porta potties and even though the night comes alive
with fire shows and bass beats
the sound of the cool creek calls me back
and yes there is a part of me that remembers a little bit wistfully the up-all-night nights of 
bass beats and djs and the frenzies we’d work ourselves into over sound
but there is another part of me that knows
that spirit is far from dead

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Filed under daily practice, poems, poetry, writing

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