On a fall-cooled day we raced
my brother and I
down smooth stone steps
through light-jacket wind
to our secret place
where moss grew heavy
on grandfather oaks
too stern to sway.

Behind the brick garage
we crawled between
broken wood fence posts
to bury our bounty
of cat eyes, old coins
and a dead bloated frog
in a shoe box coffin
kept safe from squirrels.

We walked the rock alley
saving our favorite stones
then through the storm sewer
our passage to the park
where we carved obscene words
with my brother's boy scout knife
on the railings of the bridges
that crossed Rock Creek Park.

Passing cracked water fountains
that never worked before winter
we slid down dirt banks
and drank the cold clear water
that once after a storm
made us sick for a week.

Covered by trees with leaves
that still filtered sunlight
we straddled green slippery rocks
and searched for tiny fish
sheltered under tree roots
safe from fast currents
or kids wearing tennis shoes.