Michael Ast

Afternoon, feet and sandals submerged in the Schuykill. The temperature feels so good. A reckoning, refreshing. I didn’t walk barefoot enough this year. Reading Mary Oliver reconcile anxiety and night tremors, awaiting the morning redbird outside her window. Rum on my tongue. Orange anodized flask, wedged between rocks and river bottom. Revelry on the shore beneath the foot bridge. Betzwood. Somewhere, always, a dog is fetching a stick. Let that be consolation for borrow, anytime. A dog is jumping in the river here. Black and wet, happy as heck, his owners taking cell phone pics. Three Mexican girls are giggling and wading where the creek greets this old river. Water trickle. Mud odor after the heavy rains of last week. Mary speaks of a comforting colt, its warm body, and trillium. So beautiful. Summer afternoon. This Valley Forge. August winding down. Melancholy. Another sip of rum. The sun in and out of clouds. Happy I found this half sunken stone to sit upon. To sulk, a smile, inside out.