For this poem I closed my eyes and remembered when I would be sent to call the cows for milking time, and then waited while the Surge milking machine did its work. (Rumors that milk production fell off during these times are completely unfounded.) I used to sing at the top of my lungs, endlessly, and often the Gershwin number, Summertime, when the livin' is easy...
I stand in my own shadow,
the vast rolling pasture before me.
I’m nine years old
at noon in a South Dakota
summertime.
Arms flung wide,
turning round and round, all by myself--
east, south, west, north,
cerulean, infinite sky—
summertime.
Head thrown back,
breathe deep and let it go, sing loud and high,
until meadowlarks bow and cheer.
Growing up free in a South Dakota
Summertime!
