I’m now sure it was a dream,
but then I was 11 and it was real.
I’m still drawn to the memory.

We lived on the edge of the country on a gravel road.
The country started just beyond the back yard
— a brackish pond with a hint of sulfur.
150 South Cooper.

I rode my bike on the marge,
a little harder, but smoother,
and not as dusty as the road.
Left at the corner,
west along the corn fields.
Vivid greens in the sun.

One or two more turns
and along side was a shade tree,
just across the ditch.
I put the bike to the ground
and sat in the shade.
I’ve never known such peace,
either before or after.
Time passed, supper called,
I reluctantly pedaled home.

Several times that summer
I tried to find that place,
but I never could.