The invitation went out:
Bring a chair. Food to share.
Booze of your choice. Headlamp.
Bug spray.
We gathered at a neighbor’s farm
at the twilight end of a summer day.
Talked about things both big and small --
Moose getting over garden fences.
Bird calls from the field and forest.
The size of the universe.
The natures of God.
When we were full enough,
and drunk enough,
the instigator of all this
brought forth an antique
croquet set with candles
on the wickets. Matches flared.
The game was on!
While the newbies were coached
around the course, making sure
rules were being followed,
we hooligans were behind them
in the dark, cheating like crazy,
moving balls with our feet,
lining up shots, trying not to giggle.
When night was full upon us
and the last ball hunted from
the shadows, we snuffed the candles,
shared out the leftovers, hugged,
and trundled off to home and bed.
There is no epic ending here.
No final words of great beauty
or wisdom. Just friends
holding back the abyss
with small flames and
antique wooden mallets.
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