Here's my poem about Isaac and Winfield and the FreeState InterFaith Council and the wind that couldn't beat us

This photo taken by Sam Stratton just moments before we blew that pop stand and flew to Ark City. The shot is looking north toward out oncoming adventure. Needless to say, none the awnings or flags were standing when we got back.





WINFIELD BOUND

Winfield bound,
by wind
and rain
and mud, oh, the river of mud
the tenacity of the one that laughs
yet panics in reasonable acknowledgment
at first sight of the fury and force, power, and pride
of extreme Kansas weather playing late summer
last practical jokes on the unsuspecting

Later, after reluctant tangled wet acceptance of those things we cannot change
mute late night desperation tempered by Midwest determination and commitment
as if to say, “That William Clarke Quantrill shall NOT destroy nor steal of the soul of this town!”

Sleeping not sleeping soaking
on beds of moisture chilled by the despair of sodden hopes
first light’s inspection demands coffee fuel to forge ahead with determined re-encampment
melded minds seeking uneasy complicated solutions to undeniable frustration

and then...
as elder statesmen pontificate
a voice seldom heeded speaks with Mr. Smith’s Washington resolve
Listen...
I have...
HEY!
Listen, just listen to me, QUIET

heads turn
focus
the youngest moist survivor speaks
Our tent is finished, gone, done
over the rabble he states the only logical possibility
If we trash our tent, release it from the frame, the fly remains, stable enough to stand
and if and when...
until the other wagons arrive
at least we have some shade of sorts and the larder, the liqueur, and the ammo stays dry

And it was done
for some the longest 48 hours of relaxation ever known

By nightfall, the adventure team was settled, prepared, and waiting
Exchanged looks prior to dispersement to lands charted
yet annually unknown
having been challenged by winds of disheartenment, responding with resolve
as if by signal
the team scatters to the grove, grounds and beyond
leaving behind this lone exhausted old grandmother
now silent, sitting among what was, then was not , and now, is once again
remembering the night prior
his only salvation a late night campgrounds jam gifted by travelers from not Georgia, but South Carolina
waiting to find energy enough
to rest, play, nap
willing to watch
contemplate
cogitate
record
as others fly
Winfield bound