On The Fourth

In a tiny pocket of Ohio every Fourth of July

children still decorate bicycles in flag-like streamers

and parade around the neighborhood while parents follow

dutifully, the air heavy enough to make them collapse

into beach chairs by the lake with sufficient talk

and beer to take them through the day, with nothing

to do but watch little sun-screened bodies on diving boards,

on the sand, in paddle boats, hands full of chips.

Hawks in trees watch silently, while a blue

heron may, at any moment, take flight with a giant prehistoric

wingspan over the scene, geese honk, ducks laugh,

snapping turtles hide in the mud, the deer wait until dusk

to stare unmoving in the shadows, the tree frogs and bullfrogs

will start up a lonely chorus in the dark.

A campfire will arise from old ashes, chairs will assemble

to watch fireworks in this, their own little world.

As children disappear to beds, adults will encircle the bonfire.

The women may talk of their book club selection,

and of how their discussion will veer off topic so easily.

The men will talk of the Browns and the Tribe and keep throwing

mighty logs on the fire into the early morning hours of July 5th

because no designated drivers are needed.

The smell of burning wood will permeate

hair and clothes and open-windowed houses,

smoldering into the breaking day, calling them back

to a place where children are children and neighbors are friends

where America hasn't changed as much as we'd thought.