Alloys

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.