After seven hard and difficult miles,
I walked out of the woods to find
a young pirate named Capt. Stevie storming
the muddy shores of Kentucky’s Red River
with a plastic sword & a prosthetic left leg.
His blue cape fluttered behind him.
I sat on the ground, leaning against my pack
& sipping warm white wine.
I watched him taunt the currents,
a flowing but calm mistress in August,
as he splashed in low-tide ponds
& chased darting sparrows.
After slicing his name into the sand
only to be washed over by cotton-touch waves,
Capt. Stevie would slash at the water
with his plastic sword,
hopping on his good leg,
& cursing in a child's whisper.
He then disappeared amongst the rocks,
& I did not see him again until I left.
Capt. Stevie crouched, carving
his name into a dead raccoon.
He smiled & I waved, looking
for his father in the parking lot.
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