My brother propels down the driveway
escaping rocks thrown at him by Dad.
A hunter, fisherman.
It is a deterrent against breaking God’s commandments,
a child not obeying his father,
kicking in the bumper of the old,
red station-wagon, the one used for our all day
treks to church, stopping at yard sales,
fruit stands and farmer’s markets,
making our distant drives across New England
and into the Maritimes. It was there Dad led us
to the house his father grew up in,
masked in stocks of thickets and trees.
As we waded into the woods,
passed the stone wall,
and wended our way through the forest,
all that was left for us,
depressed into the dirt, was its foundation.