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What if we were borne aloft by birds with strands
Of woven gold, and taken high into the mountains,
Where they would deposit us beside a roaring
Cataract, and what if, at the water's edge, a picnic
Basket (somehow dry) lay waiting for us, filled
With po' boy sandwiches and oyster stew,
And after we had filled our eyes and stomachs,
And laid back upon a patch of fragrant meadow
Grass, and napped, our faces in the sun, those birds
Returned to fly us home?  Would all of that be better
Than these hours we have spent together, chatting
On the porch?


© Lawrence Beck 2023