Fools, friends, and family migrate North to
celebrate the spring lunar equinox the Indians
call, Big Fish Humping Moon.
Just a bunch of yellow belly bottom dwellers who,
in the midst of spawning season, ignominiously
gather for an annual rite of red wine, red meat,
low thought, no rent.
Sap rises, screws loosen, and winter shadows
shorten as we liberate ourselves from our women,
snowmobile suits, and serious conversation.
The designated High Priest serves a communion of
cocktails. Preaching a liberation theology that promises
salvation if we surrender to our inner-fucking-idiot-natures.
Without judgment, or the time honored measuring of dicks,
we enjoy a moment where nothing much happens, hours
pass, rain falls, and the wheel goes round.