Rattlesnake Run

In summertime, we used to scamper
Beneath the drooping wisteria
Over great boulders and a mossy meadow
Down steep slopes, using roots for ladder-rungs,
Through a canopy of fragrant cedars
to Rattlesnake Run.

We never saw a rattlesnake - maybe
A moccasin or two - but the name was old,
Older than any of us pink-cheeked explorers
Walking paths worn by so many and yet so few.
Rattlesnake was ours - Masons' - mine - a secret
Held by the owners of the Knob,
The high bare hill
Topped by a solitary willow
Keeping watch over the Run, over the house, over the fields,
Over me.

Rattlesnake ran five miles through Mason land,
Twisting a dozen times around Pleasant Ridge,
Running wide, slow, smooth, then
pitching swiftly down, falling twice
Into pools so expertly carved deep into slick rock
we knew that some Mason ancient had scooped them out
For six-year-olds to slip into.

In highsky and dry August afternoons,
When the cattle would wander low into the valley,
The Run would lay bare centuries
Of slate, granite, gneiss,
Yesterday's pebbles sitting in frozen peace atop smooth slabs,
With feeble fingers of water sliding around the sides,
A straightfaced comment on the eternity of Running,
and the damning consequence of not Running.

On those days, we would run
Across the rocks, the same way you might run
Across a parking lot or a cul-de-sac.
Sara would chalk out hopscotch squares,
Or David would bring his blue marbles.
When a flood would throw downed trees against a turn in the bank
We would fashion a fort, call it Sumter or McHenry (or Mason),
Fly David's shirt from a long branch and assault it for capture
'Til we heard Mom call down from the willow
Or saw the shadows fall up past the cedars.

Climbing the winding way
From Rattlesnake to the Knob,
Our soft, heavy breaths mingled
Among the last calls of the mockingbirds
And the first of the whippoorwills.