Sunday Drive

Cloudless afternoon –

the Mennonite girls

drive carriages down

gravel byways,

laughing under

black bonnets.

All but one

lean and wave

as we blow past.

On an iron pole

in a man-made pond,

a belted kingfisher

cocks his big-

headed profile

against the sun.

The lime headstones

in Cosper’s graveyard

illegible, our fingers

pick up granules

like salt from

their smooth faces.

Back on the course,

before a third put,

pausing for a jet’s

deafening passage

to fade, I hear

the wind vectors’

whipcrack, see

the ball breaking

toward the hole.