It is not far, not far at all beyond
the city limits where the road ends,
even the tire tracks peter out amidst
the wild-grown grass surrounded
by trees, invisible from buildings.
Just enough room to park, lay out
a blanket, pitch a tent.
Off to one edge, a ring. I thought
at first of mushrooms. But no—
of snails, their variegated shells
ablaze in the afternoon light.
I read to them awhile, until the sun
was low enough that it was time
to gather wood. Whether they
enjoyed it I’ve no idea.
A fire just long enough to warm
ramps, mushrooms, beans, a chunk
of bread torn to pieces, then to bed
and dreams of snails who aspire
to write their first poems.
Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Blood and Bourbon, The Stratford Quarterly, and Stonecoast Review, among others.
Foxglove Journal 