On Saturday we drove thirty miles north to the wooded Cross Ranch State Park by the Missouri River and attended the annual Bluegrass Music Festival. That style of music is a favorite of Mary and me, and we occasionally attend functions of that kind. Events of the day coaxed me to write the following versification as well as reminding me of similar circumstances in which I have found myself.
It was hard to think of a better way
to spend a June Saturday
than to sit in a lawn chair in the afternoon
listening to bluegrass, tune after tune.
Making our spot in the shade of a tree,
we sat facing the stage so we could see
the musicians sing and play their stuff;
they were pros, practiced, not off the cuff.
Soon, I noticed the girls squirming around
and brushing their clothes. What had they found?
Little brown spots had begun to appear,
and if you rubbed them they would smear.
And if you imagined them clumped into goop,
you'd realize that what we had was worm poop.
One self-styled expert looked up and said,
"Box elder trees, to worms it's like bread."
But then he looked again into the trees
and said, "Oh, I see holes in the ash leaves,
too. Those worms don't care what they eat,
may as well stay put and keep your seat."
So we did, finding relief with some gentle brushing;
at home we'd wash them off, scrubbing, flushing.
That wasn't the first time crap's been dropped on me,
but those stories need to wait 'til part two, or three.
