That clock keeps ticking.
In the early quiet hours.
While the symphony plays.
Totally in tune.
Living and letting live.
The grill keeps the flavor forever.
Each cut, each pepper, each ear.
Like a smokehouse.
Everything tastes of slow burn.
Old stories of old days.
Only good time memories and heroes.
The conquered and the drunken.
Grifting schemes and bags of visions.
Days filled with amusements.
Activities and destinations.
Goals and feats, high fives and shakes.
Begin with a bracket, get the equipment.
Reasonable and minimal rules.
Fetching, slinging, and basket work.
Could barnstorm if we wanted.
Sign up the locals, do a Friday workshop.
They wouldn't know what happened.
We would clean up.
Like the early days in Akron.
Jim Thorpe and Red Grange.
Specific rules adopted.
Agreements and acknowledgements.
Protect the integrity of the game.
It needs no bells and whistles.
The valley is full of brush.
Trails cut nicely and worn flat.
Buffalo stay up on the ridge.
Grazing and ignoring.
Vast grasslands surround the canyon.
Ranger station closed for no fee lunch.
The staff has been cut.
Down below the canyon walls glare.
Sculptures carved by wind and water.
Dark red shadows in the afternoon sun.
Careful steps and constant lunging.
Scaling the wall with all four limbs.
Up to the flattop, with the high far view.
To the east, like a green lush bed.
Red rails, with vultures gliding overhead.