After wildflower beer
at Turtle Back Brewery
moonlight seeps through
the foliage on the buffalo
trail that is the path back 
home. At the crossing
below Five Lick Spring
there’s a riffle island
with a stately sycamore
where a gnome in a loincloth 
stands,  laughing and gurgling.
Could this be real?  I ponder
an obscure proof when 
the smooth faced bag of bones
wavers off into the mist
of the fast moving stream.
I don’t remember passing out
but awaken to a morning sky
that’s dark with cloud 
and loud with thunder clap.
Pushing up the east hollow
I reach the neighbor woman’s
garden where onions are set
and potatoes already at rest.
She is churning the soil
with a witch’s fork,
its four prongs red as blood.
By God, in the now falling rain
I see she’s the gnome
in the loincloth, her missing 
teeth and full blooming blush
more beautiful the closer my eyes