Near Space

A bird overhead throats its ping,
and brings to mind jogging fields in Hermann Park
and in Austin, where one spooky night I sprang out of bed,
and rather than walk through bedroom walls
I visited, instead, the Athletic Field of UTA.

It was the year, twins to me were born.
I was not completely bald back then.
Neither had my beard reached the solar nexus.
I ran and ran June through September,
barefooted, blistered, pus infested.

The Athletic Field was full moon bright.
At times, both feet floated as I galloped,
a stange presence was at my back.
I found out later, Indians there had been massacred.
Thirty years later, in near space I reminisce.

Harry Porter, you've not been forgotten.
If I could have but one wish still, it would be
to master the language of the thrasher
who whistled in the alleys, sunflower sown,
sunflower height in Texas splendor.