Sidewinding out,
past oaks with fractal branches,
graceful drooping bower-isles
in seas of summer-blond grasses.

After asphalt gives over to reddish dust,

a metal gate shields the road from a spindly goat path,
                                                       a suggestion of a passage,
                                                        ­                      a treacherous
                                                                ­                           scratch
                                                                ­                                     on
                                                              ­                                        the
                     ­                                                                 ­                 steep
                                                           ­                                            hillside.

Peer out the heart’s window,
only scree and visions of tumbling down, down greet you.
Move the chain and open the gate, but don't get back in.
It’s time to stretch and let the driver pick their own way through.

Down, down the driveway we walk, don’t run it's steep!
and we are met with a circle of deer-cropped grass,
a curious shed claiming itself a cabin,
and a wooden house.

From the house comes a woman,
laugh first,
to teach you how to crack pine nuts,
in spite of a squirrel’s scolding.

Garlic-kitchen, rustic room, quiet in its quality.
A phone that works often enough.
A black and white tv, grey today
in favor of a window full of deer.

The dainty pink-soap bathroom tells you
a proper lady lives here.
Tole paint cheering every surface tells you
a joyous heart dwells here.  

Drowsy sunny table chatter stretches out the time.
Wooden pegs turn fidgets into solitaire.  
Veneration by languorousness compleat;

it’s

time

to

skip.

Out the door and to the right,
stop by the small pond to see water skippers dance.
Then down the path to the swinging bridge,
a slender suspension of disbelief.

Walk across the boards; you’re an explorer.
Walk onto the metal grates; you’re a spider on a web.
But try telling that to self-preservation,
balking at every jello-wobble step.

The bold bounce like astronauts on the moon.
The wise linger to look for turtles far below.
Fortune favors them both,
as all ways lead to Camp Secret.  

A worn trail threading the brush,
opens to a ferny dream.
A small stream dibbling its way to the creek,
has left behind a paradise.

Trip-trap over a footbridge
to the shelter of a grapevine canopy.
A fairy’s kitchen with a green enamel sink,
tractor seats and a *** rack tree.

Ancient stone building with a door aged shut,
On one end a cheeky wall-less loo.
Dormant spring beds in the clearing,
waiting for sleeping bags to bloom.

Craggy fruit trees form an orchard
gothic as an old graveyard.
Inviting, elegant in desolation,
but we push by undeterred.

Tracing a deer trail up the ridge,
keep clear of the poison oak.
A soundless becalmed summer day.
Perfect for a visit to the dam.

Concrete distaff, copper spindle.
Magic spun from a captured creek.
Flowing through fossily tunnel
to power the electric trees.

Winding ‘round to the other side,
a second bridge but this one still.
Wooden boards in a rusty frame.
More perilous than its swaying kin.

Hold on tight, don’t trust your feet.
Then meander with a streamlet
to the garden just beyond
the mossy, reedy muskrat pond.

High charged fence to keep deer back
from sweet roots growing deep.
Doe barn, buck barn is their place
with tools, dust and memories.

Back by the house, we slide to the terrace
where ladybugs shelter in soft mullein leaves.
The washboard shale is sprouting sedges,
a water snake kingdom by a saltless sea.