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by Michel Steven Krug
The whir of a 20-speed tropical June,
Minnesota air sliced by spokes,
that gentle hiss
then those crescendos, coasting down hills
Through the hotter asphalt wind,
Where, to the right, the little league
field recently dragged, the silt
consolidated with lake scent
From across the lake drive
Where homeruns are occasionally
launched, by precocious pre-teens
who’ve learned to square the bat
On a laced ball, now all wet,
A memory never deleted,
alloys of summer and night,
childhood and change,
The pink sky powders breaths
So calm and untroubled
by electronic acrimony or
unsatisfying comparisons
Just one private blue heron
Feeding on minnows at the buggy shore.