Tidewater, Oregon
The tractor has left rows in the grass, somewhat like rows of cut cane. Louisiana, I take you everywhere.
The field itself is a giant row between aisles of fir and alder, a chute running west to east,
as I will run west to east, not like the hurrying of the sun-- beginning and end being one and all that.
Some might call this loafing. It is such a pleasure at this point not to care what the locals
in their trucks, the loggers, and the UPS man might think if they saw me from the road.
A field with no boundaries, an expanse of tideland is more honest really
my back sinking in the mud, high tide covering my joy.
Martha SerpasTidewater, Oregon
The tractor has left rows in the grass, somewhat like rows of cut cane. Louisiana, I take you everywhere.
The field itself is a giant row between aisles of fir and alder, a chute running west to east,
as I will run west to east, not like the hurrying of the sun– beginning and end being one and all that.
Some might call this loafing. It is such a pleasure at this point not to care what the locals
in their trucks, the loggers, and the UPS man might think if they saw me from the road.
A field with no boundaries, an expanse of tideland is more honest really
my back sinking in the mud, high tide covering my joy.
Martha Serpas