Jumping, arms and legs pumping,
my mother, her mouth open wide
on top her short stocky frame,
slices her bushy black hair
with quick hands, as if swatting a fly.
The morning shadows are long.
I strain to hear, wanting to help her,
knowing, as only children can,
when trouble flutters.
All I can decipher is,
"Stay away girls!" her voice panicked.
My sister, anchored beside me,
rabbit-scared, peers down the hill,
down the dirt road
like so many others in Maine,
to home, the lake and the cabins.
We stay away, knowing better.
Only then does Bea
bravely crunch her way
with ballet steps on brandy leaves,
eastern twigs, piney-scented breezes
of Maine.
A few yellow demons laced with black stripes
are still buzzing near my mother’s head.
This is how I learned to stay on the road,
not to go cross-country where risk hovers.
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