We imagined
rain trickling down
the side of our street
was a roaring river
and the slivers of bark
not much bigger than a tree
splinter my dad
tweezed from my palm,
were speedboats.

Wet pavement reflecting
our yellow slickers,
we watched our racers
careen over pebble dams,
under oak-leaf bridges,
'round Milton's curve.

It was easy to track them
from our three-foot height.

The race ended
at hill's bottom
in a mud puddle always
perfect for stomping.

We didn't care who won.


© by David Henson.
Used with the author's permission.