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 a 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 know he gets how rare breezes work,

that radiate our spirit

that luminate our breath

that exhilarate our voices

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