by Russell Rowland
A lot of the summer traffic bound
for the White Mountains passes through here.
It stops at the lights downtown,
and soon is backed up to New Jersey,
seemingly. Heat rises off cars: they shimmer
like the mirages they probably are.
That old Dane said “purity of heart
is to will one thing.” July vacationers want
one thing. It looks less like purity
than obsession. Hearts such as mine
wish something else than what these pilgrims
are after, with their bike racks, boats
on trailers. Our hearts hang around
cellar holes, stone walls, untended graveyards
deep in the woods; follow dirt roads
between oaks to clearings in which
nothing happens. We are gone all day, then
come home, acorns in our pockets.
Usually, we are alone someplace
with hawks, coyotes, spirits; where squirrels
don’t lose to oncoming cars.
