Well, me’n Rose t’other week
were heading down the Fort Valley,
in the middle of the Massanutten.
It was our old short cut to get back home
from visiting her family.
We passed the abandoned chapel at St David’s,
Seven Fountains, and the old family graveyard
sitting on a spare, barren hillside.
It was early April, and the cold was just leaving
this small valley.
We were meandering down this narrow road,
trying to remember exactly where the shortcut was,
when we came to King’s Crossing.
There was a small, bright green field at the crossroads,
wet and still glistening in the afternoon sun
from the early morning rain.
Now, you probably won’t find it as such
on any map, since it was named long before
we kicked the King back to England.
But the robins know how to get there.
The orchard grass was black in patches
as the birds feasted on the worms
driven skyward by the rain.
We stopped for a few minutes to watch,
and Rose says
“This feast prepared for them is a grace,
giving them strength and blessing
for the rest of their migration.”
Continuing down the old Fort road,
we, too, migrated home,
the picnic basket on the floor behind us.
INSTANT NOODLES 