The moutain wind moved across that field,
wildflowers swaying in the wind and summer air,
a hand painted scene of the almighty’s yield,
creation begotten and made by him alone.
(then came rain puring off the mountains all around the valley.)
The found path was dimly lit due to how densely it was packed together,
river running over smooth rocks and felled trees.
In summer the trout are in the deeper pools and will rise to almost any fly,
I remember how many times we walked those trails called home only by hunger and the setting sun.
In summer black bears came down from those mountains at night and in the early morning, leaving their marks in massive trees,
some even walking over the wildflower fields in lunar illumination then back to the mountains to sleep the day away.
We collected memories,
and pressed them between,
in our minds,
kept as if they,
of old books,
then kept on the shelf,
in the house,
to be read,
on long nights,
when those flowers,
and fall asleep for the winter,
and those bears,
have begun their slumber,
to sway in the wind,
of summer days and,
the breath of boys who run,
through them to refresh their memories.