Winkleman, AZ

There are times when the wind
blows through the trees, awakening
the warmth and memory of hot
dusty Arizona days,

me and Dad chasing lizards and
horned toads through the brush
and the weeds and the cactus
of our backyard,

fashioning bows and arrows
from tree limbs and kite string,

swimming in the old rusted barrel
that sat out behind the trailer,

creeping down quiet desert roads
at night in the old Scout, each of
us straining for a glimpse of a
deer, a coyote, or the glowing
yellow eyes of some other
nocturnal creature,

camping and fishing along the
Gila with Grandpa and his old
indian girlfriend,

we'd throw pieces of wood into
the water and shoot at 'em as
they drifted away...

The days seemed to last forever
back then.

I wish they still did.

- Stephen W. Brodie