Walter deYoung’s Farm

deerflies bittin crazy this morning

as one or another’s attention suddenly switches subjects,

seems everyone’s geared up

farm talking at once,

and sooner or later when we all chime in,

when we get to jam that perfect flow from one into the next,

Grandma clangs her impatient “breakfast!” bell

so all praise to cowgirl boot feet,

that familiar good-honest-stink of

endless afternoons that leaves the crew completely wasted

after mowing and raking and bailing hay now all bundled and golden in Walt’s fields,

and we can only lay out there in the killer Minnesota summer sun,

preposterous hopeful friends so verdant and gracious,

dumbfoundedly serenaded by 3 or 4 snorting tubby black barrel horses

and somewhere at day’s end,

this stubby orange pencil bravely scribbles on,

guided somehow by a nameless northcountry lake

endlessly blasting tornado-hot July winds at our backs,

throughout these buoyant and hopeful Aquarian days

Bemidji, MN

7/14/73