Tipped Ducklings July 1969

As the warm day settled into moonlight on Cape Cod

our vacation cottage settled to sylvan silence

sea salt heavy in the air, we five kids—

my siblings and a couple of friends—perched

our fifty toes gripped round the weathered handrail

of a gnarled grey deck—the kind that puts splinters

in your feet. Defying gravity, bottom sides up

we tipped like ducklings mooning the woods

—a breeze swept over our bums producing

ecstatic giggles as we teetered above grass

and trees far below. Indoors, adults murmured

over martinis, smoked cigarettes preparing

to watch history change. Outside, giddy

with the threat of falling with freedom

far from home up way past bedtime unattended

the cool night air bathed our skin.

The screen door creaked open. Freeze!

Mom's arm appeared—not her face

her voice snapped, “Come in, quickly!”

Uh-oh, we're in big trouble.

We hoisted up our britches, jumped down from the rail

ran into the dim, pine-paneled living room

hoped the scolding would be mild—

it was vacation after all and we had company.

Mom shushed, “Sit down and watch,” —Phew

she hadn't seen us. We sat on the worn, braided rug

adults on the tobacco-stained couch. The TV glimmered

through musty vacation-rental air in wavy black-and-white lines

crackled, “That’s one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind,”

and in that unimagined moment we were one

with the cosmos. We all left the TV, stood together on the deck

looked up in silence at the moon. 

We were Neil Armstrong.

We were America. We could do anything 

our hopes and hearts desired. It was as exhilarating 

as the wind on my bum.

photos: 21 April, 2019, Nice

19 May, 2019, Nice 

Historical note:

Listening full speed to Armstrong's quote, my childhood ears did not hear "a man" just "man" on TV.