IX. The Last Beautiful Day of the Year
**
There’s folks across the bridge this hour,
all waiting on something to start.
Two thirds are on the wrong damn side
(you know the sunset’s the best part).
That sun’s up sinking low and hot;
it’s got the water all aflame,
while underneath the bridge await
a bunch of birds, just different-named.
They come for tacos, come for twang,
they leave with cowboy hats.
They come for Rainey, come for Sixth,
but first a big, black cloud of bats.
There’s folks across the lake this hour,
all waiting on something to end:
Six kinds of boats, eight kinds of folks,
a mile straight between each bend.
There’s lighters, lights, and empty lites,
a couple coolers full of trash,
while on the boards the heavy lids
drift off towards cushions, for their crash.
They come for water, come for space,
they wave off all the gnats.
There’s work tomorrow, sleep tonight,
but now a big, black cloud of bats.
One night, years past, around this hour,
I was out driving to the bar.
Five folks had come to spend three days,
so the last night, I brought the car.
It looked like some old fun cartoon
where all the bugs form working hands:
Some broad, tall mass above the lake
which bunches up, and then expands.
They vanquish varmints, clear the skies,
they do the airborne work of cats.
When it gets dark, they all embark:
a soaring big, black cloud of bats.
**
Another good one!