AT WOODS HOLE

On the Cape's bogs
gathering blueberries
at Wood's Hole
draped in my old Fogg
rain coat
as we notice a frog
being dissected
by a teen scientist
outside Wood's Hole
he's also drinking
Russian rye kvass
with Nabokov by his side
and from my eye
we direct a ruddy horse rider
with an injured stallion
on the open fields
to the stud farm nearby
in Hamblin near Falmouth
relaxing now by the mud
near a carefree Evergreen
at a standstill dawn for me
as I'm playing my soprano sax
trying to relax
by playing riffs of jazz
with a wriggling garden snake
awakening a tadpole
rustling on the dewy grass.