those old stories

chainsaws, cedar bark and woodchip on orthopedic chair rests. double dutch doors. summertime heat.  wandering empty streets on friday and saturday nights.  running through sherlock’s field; lost in a forest of cornstalks.  saved, somehow, by the canadian flag at the husky.  muscle cars running, racing to the edge of town, back again.  those old stories are waiting for me.