Nowhere to Go and Going
The feet of the young girl running over the grass
in the neighborhood park touch the earth lightly, lightly.
Her young mother, heavy with her next child, looks
at her smiling, and I smile as I walk past in the early
evening of a late August. The girl has hardly rump
enough to give her shorts purchase. Her mother’s breasts,
full and round with the coming of milk, overflow
their halter. She sighs as the daughter skips to the fountain,
sips, then scurries back with one, two, three cartwheels
hurling herself down in a heap of ankles, knees, elbows
by her mother’s side. I am some place beneath thinking,
a walker and a watcher, drifting in the late summer
no where to go and going
by Nils Peterson
from His Notebooks
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