The September sun glances
over her shoulder
at the community building,
the parking lot full of pick-ups
and trailers, one marked across its length,
Full Cry & American Cooner Magazine.
Banners on the fence
announce the weekend event,
but if you see those letters
running dark across this page,
your vision of our village—
nestled in the arms of oak-hickory,
grown on the islands
the ice mass drifted around,
where artists and dairy farmers
resuscitate rural America,
where, (as the tourist video tells it),
the living is easy—
will be shattered.
But perhaps their escape to the page
will make you lean back and laugh,
a roiling belly laugh of desire
to live
where we
where we
Welcome Coon Hunters.
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