Gone are the days of milking the cow
at dawn, baling the hay ’til sunset,
lumberjack breakfasts and skinned knees.
Lost are the chalk hopscotch games
and long walks home from our primer
school, the Ninety-One in Canby.
As the sunrises again, the waves
feel unnatural and distant.
Connections weaken as the broadband
signal strengthens, and the book
gives way to soundbites.
The whirling dervish spins
until his costume peels off
exposing the wolf that gobbled
up the grandmother.