Golf Course in February
Having always wondered about the golf course, set apart from this drab workingclass neighborhood beckoning like a better world with fields of electric green,
I slip across the chain and follow the cartpath littered with last years' scorecards and winding like a labyrinth until I am lost like some walker in the land of the dead.
For now the fairways are brown and threadbare except for occasional tufts of wild onion; the tees and greens rest quiet under quilts of straw. The artificial stream has gone bone-dry revealing its gravel bed.
I wander on-- the frozen rough crunching underneath my boots, wind smarting against my cheeks-- past rows of classic oaks which stand gaunt and spectral like old men squinting at the grey sky debating possibilities of rain or snow or worse . . .
I stop for breath: a hawk appears from out the grey ganglia of limbs like an image of eternity reproving me and my trespass-- he hovers motionless marking me, then glides silently down the fairway in search of prey . . .
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