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A lot of us were upset when it
was ploughed over and leveled.
The black mold foxing up the walls
of the new school’s foundation
neither takes a figurative shape
nor scripts a vandal’s invective;
but, there’s no doubt about it,
it’s pure naiad scorn.

*

There’s an old story about
a king marrying one. In one
of Virgil’s stories, didn’t a mother
guide her frustrated son to the key
of how things change; some trouble
with lethal, unintended consequences
springing up like agitated
snakes or a colony of bees?

*

An Austin friend of mine
goes on about the monarchs
and about how gods
and goddesses are eternal,
even when people
completely fall silent,
stop worshipping them.

She has a lot to say
about a native spring
that use to be a charming spot.

Once, in Luarca, a small village
in northern Spain, I visited a legendary
urban spring, La Fuente del Bruxo.
Someone had marked the source
with a four-leaf clover carved in stone,
had installed a spigot. The locals
(whose ancient language is Bable)
say that water use to always
run there, that it was a Celtic site.

My last visit, I was piqued
to see that someone had built
on top of the ancient location.
Another disconcerted pilgrim
had scrawled VERGO√ĎA
in fierce black spray paint
across one of the new walls.

*

Back then, we didn’t have
a place to hang out. No mall.
There was one remote spot. . .
a little spring. An ancient wall spigot
was mounted near a limestone cliff
green with maidenhair fern and frogs.

It was a beautiful place!
We’d trounce there to skinny dip,
picnic, eat the wild figs
that grew there;

sometimes, we’d hike on
down to Bull Creek.