Most evenings are as warm as the days in Door
but tradition waits for no man.
At six, bells clang and air fills
with a woody aroma.

There is a fire brewing along with popping tops
of brewskies.
Boiled potatoes mashed with butter
corn on the cob grilled to perfection, and the stickiness
of butter finely burnt on the tops of yellow kernels.

As the sun sets, the crowd has settled on chairs,
benches, and logs. The hatted storyteller is about
to start. His eyes gleam, ,and he begins–
Hold on to your partner, your child,
and your dog. There’s a spirit in the air
he wants to tell you about, how he became this way,

Old Thomas was riding his horse toward the cliff, which drops off quickly
It’s a far way and steep, but once you are down there, no one
sees you again. He went to see if the waters were rising;
he was looking for the dinghy.

Something ran out of the underbrush, the horse reared
and threw Old Thomas clean over the timber and down to the lake.
They went to look for him. But only halfway- it was too steep
and brought chills. Someone saw a body, and the fish had made
many meals from the rest of it.

It was calm as sunrise, then a sound.
Clop,
clop,
clop.
Heads turned. The horse
of another color, polka-dot, came down the street
chewing his curds and oats.