This morning two young boys came riding by
my house on bicycles, waving fishing poles,
splashing through fresh puddles from March melt.
I could hear them way down the road: such laughter,
a shout or two, more laughter. Red-wing blackbirds
went silent as the boys sped past, but shortly
started back strong with their check check check,
then a chipmunk shimmied up the feeder post,
the first I’ve seen since well before Thanksgiving.
At the lake, the channel ice has broken. It flows
away through the culvert. Fish hang deep, likely
won’t chase a lure in such frigid water. Still,
the boys came riding, causing a fleeting commotion.
They’ll surely grow someday to understand patience
and these ancient patterns. I pray it’s no time soon.
by Richard Jordan
Editor’s Note: This narrative poem draws the reader into an scene where the loud innocence of a few rowdy boys sits against the clear understanding of how fleeting such a moment truly is.