An Ordinary Song

It is September in Harborton
and there are children on the docks,
stampeding with nets and new shoes;
only now beginning to realize
their land-locked passions—

the license plate on the car
is from Indiana. They are “come heres,”
slipping into town for no better reason
than the village has appeared to them
out of the same Brigadoon mist
that conceals the final pockets;

but even so, it is an ordinary day.
It is neither warm nor cold—
these are the gentle days of summer
when the village settles in
like a brooding hen, singing
soft rhythmic trillings—

an ordinary song we all bathe in.