ABSTRACT
* Under the loquat tree. It is almost a song, the echo of a song: on the bat's back I fly merrily toward summer or at high noon in the outfield clover guzzling orange crush, time endless, examining a wooden coin I'd carried all through summer without knowing it. The coin was grandpa's joke, carved from live oak, Indian side and buffalo side. 166His eyes lustered with a mirth so deep and rich he never laughed, as if it were a cosmic secret that we shared. I never understood; it married in my mind with summer. Don't take any wooden nickels, kid, and gave me one under the loquat tree.
