no timer on the hill 

had to return to that scale blower,

Mr. Hustler of sweet padoodly-stick reeds, 

stoopin up there solo 

fingerin his licorice stick,

hard drivin those “tees” and “ladees”,

all the time 

digits movin

sideways or down

then back to the top again

to rest for another lick,

some shade to sip, 

off this north country euphonic air

and I take reckon of this cat

blowin nonstop rap-a-tunes,

confusin city passers 

wonderin what other legends 

they been missin

while gainfully unemployed by trivial bosses

yet out here on this green incline,

distant echoes cluster 

then hover over bent notes, 

improvised chords stretchin out straight ahead,

and when our eyes meet

I nod his way

cause I feel he gets how rare breezes work,

that radiate our spirit

that luminate our breath

that exhilarate our voices

so each day “Eric” solos

high up on that hillside,

 rippin wispy sheets of sound

ringin upside historic buttery paths,

free fallin through lake country wooden green conclaves

duets seem beside the point

except when paths somehow cross

serendipitously-

birthin precious karmic singular lessons 

furtherin harmony bringin a wider cool

Minneapolis, 7/3/73