Mama’s laughter kept away dragonflies. pushed her head back, shook hard her slim shoulders, flooded over my soft childhood laughter, and made all seem light. She kept on interrupting my dreams through bright, Alaskan, summer nights. Magnetized men to her easy ways. Gut tight laugh, rat-a-tat-tat, Howitzer laugh like we all have in this family. Campfire beer toasting August hippies. No, stay. Interwoven hours in Shangri-la. Her gauzy Raja top blows in Indian breeze. “My titties are way too small to offend anyone,” she says as she bends and shows her smooth stomach, stretch marks showing on bronze between her hanging nipples on her fleshy bumps. The earth delights in feeling her bare feet, long, copper hair. Hookah pipe on jeansy knees. Michael Cliff Ted Dave Sister Mama me. Six people toke off a round hookah pipe. Toking, cooking corn, potato, fresh trout. Want some, honey? Just say yes: be polite. People come and go with baggies or foil pouches. Free love, free wishes through the night. Utopian trailer park groupies sing: of Michael’s guitar and vocals, sweet Kumbayah, and we, poking sticks in fire ring—My lord, Kum Ba Yah. Pete Seeger, Joan Baez, Mama’s banjo. Twanging its new, perfect timber. Like Great Grandpa blew the mouth organ, we got the music. Fire sparks, cracks blue amber until it’s pitch dark for a few brief hours. And we sleep, mumbling Cat Stevens, Oh very young, what will you leave us this time?