Biking the Course

We’re here without permission, without documents,
not allowed this grunt and shove around golf
cart paths that snake in and out of live oak, pine,
magnolia. Doves flutter above our spattery approach,
but we’re not the only people in drizzle and gray.
A man in yellow slicker teeing off by himself,
ball after ball flying into the mist, into next week’s
flow chart, the plunk of deficits. Someone’s Irish
setter prances around us as we peddle toward
the far edge: St. Andrews’ villas, one under another,
lights hung from rented ceilings, our caps dripping,
where this morning two women emerged from their
cart carefully plotting the lay of putts, the kiss
of club, each of their balls quietly entering the tiny
dark hole of happiness. A great blue heron stands
at pond’s edge, watching herself descend into the
wavering village on the surface, lit windows there,
her twin rising to meet her, long legs telescoping
into each other, dimpling water now the shatter
of rain, as we peddle faster, afraid of not breaking
through, not coming out of that drowned city
beneath the reflection of our pumping legs, breath
steaming, trying to get back to where we belong.

John Allman | Mudlark No. 31
Contents | Chameleon