With a break in the rain we would gather
behind our fathers and wheelbarrows
to fill potholes. Undersides of leaves

gazed up from the trapped rain– gravel raked in
kicked ruddy clouds like woodsmoke, pillowing
until we shoveled them full, the panes

capped. Our gravel came from a two yard pile
one of our fathers ordered from the quarry
himself. Year after year the city turned

us down for paving– someone else’s
mantle taken up decades ago, when
Christmas trees were farmed here, and crabapples

picked, pheasants stalked, and asphalt chip seal
meant driving out of the gully for work
was what their days had led to. So we became

the crew that kept the road from turning
to a chain of lakes. Denting the mound’s
foothills first, the gravel slid loose, topping

its gouge. We tried dragging it down off
the peak, but always lost more to the edges.
Left uncut, the grand firs grew up tight, thin.