Each spring they hold a crawdad festival—
the tents painted red and full of steam.
The older women teach nieces and daughters
to mind the boiling pots with foot-long spoons.
The basil and bean broth simmers. They wait
wiping their faces with handkerchiefs.
The men hike back from cold crick run-offs
up to their elbows and knees in mud, the bags
of burlap wriggling and pinching until they’re emptied.
_     _Drop the basil now.
_     _Bring the carrots up to breathe.

After the banquet they vote by throwing shells
on an old-fashioned scale, so they can crown
this Spring’s Crawdad King and Queen.
Crick water escapes through the slats of the tents,
beneath their eaves, at each mooring stake
and hand-laced corner—it escapes them,
their songs cut short in fits
of coughing, laughter and half-verses.
The tents fill again with hissing steam, and they sing.
_     _I think I like it here.
_     _I’ll get along fine.