but that I don’t remember now…
I remember flying,
flying down.
Church camp in the mountains
every summer.
We were too young
to even consider
a future where we would all move on
to other summers,
leaving camp behind.
Kids would arrive,
stay a week or two,
then go home again
til next summer.
But we, my family ---
well, dad was the director,
and so we stayed
til camp ended.
And that was how
I learned to fly,
fly down.
The campgrounds were
on fairly level ground, a field.
At the forest’s edge,
a steep and rocky path
descended down
in twists and turns
among the trees
a quarter mile
to the lake below
where all the campers
would swim each afternoon.
On hottest days sometimes
a morning dip as well.
But there were times
up at the campgrounds
that I would steal away
descending down
to fish the lake shore
with my coiled-up line and hook
and dough balls made from bread
pocketed at lunchtime,
catching on occasion
a few small chubs.
The descent became in time
a game unto itself
to see how fast
I could race down,
not a thought to
dire consequences,
should I stumble, trip or fall.
Arms akimbo,
eyes on the path,
where to plant one foot just lifted,
while the other landed,
banking off a root or rock
to make each turn
on down the twisting path,
I only had to guide my feet,
gravity did the rest,
free-falling cueball
caroming off the cushions,
down I flew,
settled into a two-step cadence
pushing off enough for feet to glide
just above the path between footfalls.
With all the exuberance
of immortal youth,
Sure-footed,
and sure I would not fall,
arms out, I flew,
flying down.
Gordon Gilbert
03/27/2014