Summer Hostage

Our small loop of a street usually quiet Today receives a loud grooming with chain saws and wood chippers and diesel trucks slicing and ruining silence into anti-solitude. This is my last day off until summer school begins in two sultry weeks. Morning rain passed through to breezy summer camp sun, crisp shade tree shadows moving slightly within lush grass waiting for my non-motorized mower. It feels *****... I feel *****, at sixes and sevens at 67, to trust that I need not just more solitude to become healthy again, but more silence to become vocally wealthy again. To go or to stay here too near a State highway trafficking toward two casinos now more native to American economies than Native Americans to empowerment. This last bus not quite upon us while thoughts wonder and feelings wander about shouting sawers and clanging chipper banging my longing back to a rural dirt dust-path along side a Michigan Centennial Farm where I knew breezy silent summer encampment days of solitary fresh freedom. I wonder why we can't go home again, Yet I can go back to childhood solitude served up in sacred silent unsettled dusty memories of toddling freedoms lost.