Virgil and The Fountain

I remember Virgil’s leaves, so green, which in autumn turned a vibrant yellow. His branches were my fortress, I memorized every bump and twig. From it’s highest point I could see deep into the neighboring junk yard; a proverbial grave site for rust addled school buses, cars, refrigerators and every sort of metal imaginable; magnificent pieces oxidizing in the overzealous desert heat.

Past the junk yard, and the dirt road, near half a mile from our rotting house, I could see the highway, and the tall pine trees which surrounded and shrouded the waterfall at its entrance. On particularly hot days I would day dream of falling into the cold waterfall, my clothes drenched and sticking to me. I thought of sitting on the fountain, like lying beneath the bath, its eight foot force pushing against my four foot frame.

(Written winter 2010)