One hundred years ago today
my father turned eight years old.
With school being out, he probably spent
the day like he did many others,
riding his pony alone in the woods,
his little .22/.410 over-under
resting across his lap, miles from town
and years away from anything like
Child Protective Services.
He usually made it back home
before dark. His mother was Dutch,
and, I’m told, a good cook.