In the first days of summer 

the three elms, those slightly 

opened fans, unfold 

their shadows across the river. 

Two dogs arrive exhausted, 

tongues dripping, and settle 

down near the frogbait jars. 

Aiming their poles 

toward the center of water, 

the Sunday fishermen watch 

the light pirouette off

the opposite shore. 

Their wives peel onions, 

open wine, do their nails. 

Most of the men think 

as little about gravity 

as they do about war and 

the weightlessness of time. 

How could they know that 

it is only the single, collective 

thought of their abandoned childhoods 

that keeps the world afloat?