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?