We park where they hike off

Route Seven in Massachusetts,

then we don’t hike. We eat Stop

& Shop food on a bench by

a clean but public pond with

dragonflies and polliwogs where

we see all the way to bottom.

Shaded by a crabapple tree,

I am reading in a book how

the Chinese called frogs sky-

roosters and how Jakob Lorber

said they crow like apostles.

It’s getting to late afternoon when,

I also read, the setting sun

warms the place of the dead

so that new children walk up from

wells and ponds to find places

safe enough to stay. Pea pods

were two for the price of one

at the Stop & Shop. The children

who walk up from wells might want

these once they dry off,

plus laugh to hear a bullfrog make

his rubber-band boing, this

toystore banjo sound a boy

would use to annoy his sister

in the hallway between

their upstairs bedrooms after

they’ve walked up from the wells.

So glad you made it out is what

I see as the sky apostle’s message.

Don’t stop now. We watch with him

while cars whiz by going to

Mount Greylock and crickets climb

through our bag of deli chicken as

the world turns its back on where

it was in the morning, while kids

we can’t even see hike right through

us hoping it won’t be as hard on

them here in a quiet spot in an

entire galaxy as it wanders away,

using up the universe.

the devil dwells in the mountain