Carolina Country Wind

Scaling acres of pasture fences go we two boys free and bold.
Dodging cow patties; laughing at nothing and toting fishing poles.
Come now old man Noah riding range in a red 1952 pickup truck.
Seen him coming; quick, run and hide, nothing but pasture, were sitting ducks.

He kept going, he did not see us, he was looking the other way.
Racing now with the wind, off we go over the hills and around the bend.
Out of breath with lungs now afire, we two boys come to pastures end.

The smell of bream beds and willows greets us as we arrive at the ole fishing hole.
Dean is still wheezing his asthma got in the way; he shrugs it off and reaches for his pole.

The hint of fall comes soft as late summer leaves rustle with blowing August wind.

On the opposite bank are this years used worm cans stacked neatly end to end.

Fall will soon arrive and school will start, fishing trips to the pastures pond will be no more.

Never went back after 1966 to this pond again, Dean moved away and left me with my imagination blowing evermore on the old Carolina country wind.

J. Allen Wilson © FOUR-Twenty-Six - TWO THOUSAND & SEVEN