| Ben Bohnhorst Point Guard  We drove to Hartland to watch her play on her junior high girl's basketball team. She's the point guard. We quailed at climbing the bleachers, clinging each to each, putting both feet up one step before trying the next. Olivia, pony-tailed, when she saw us came skimming up those same bleacher steps two at a time, slender, trim, and fleet. Glad we'd come. Hugs and kisses to us both. Then finch-to-feeder back to the floor again. The kiss she gives is sweet. We drive the freeway home in the evening. Olivia's team has won, and she was sharp as point guard for Hartland. We pass monstrous trailer trucks, their rubber tires roaring as they roll their loads of wares across mid-Michigan. It's said that rubber plantations in Malaysia began with only eight rubber-tree seeds imported from the Amazon. Development. Progress. Wealth. New birth. Six billion people now live on earth. Among them procurers plying slavers' gold. Young girls like her can be bought and sold. Woods have fallen and waters are fouled where these hills have been skinned for new housing starts. We trust those residents who later move in will strive for our freedoms and advance our arts. On this autumn evening a cloudless sky is cool blue at the zenith, soft rose in the west. Oaks are the last to denude themselves in this season. The sun drops behind bare trees on that crest. Far off there in the darkling rose light some geese form wavering lines of flight. From down town, no rim, all net -- swish! O! fragile Vitality! this is our wish, that Olivia be safe on this beautiful night. |
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