Walking along the track that encircles Ahrens' baseball fields,
I find this week the corn is now taller than me, a solid sea of green,
the steady breeze unfurls waves until the east horizon.

This cornfield becomes the surf of Wildwood's Jersey shore,
the walking track now the boardwalk,
the breeze this fine, humid July evening
needs only a taste of salt in the air to complete the scene.

My beagle, Gus, sniffs happily along at grass while I pretend
soon there might be fresh pizza or a Nate's hotdog stand,
if Mom were here, a waffle ice cream before the long drive home,
and a few dollars spent on Fascination games to win coupons
to collect and redeem at the end of the season.

I can taste Douglas' vanilla fudge and Laura's chocolate-covered strawberries,
hear the "watch the tram car please" when I move aside for a jogger or bicyclist;
The sun setting behind Grinnell is the same as that behind Wildwood.

Iowa has no ocean, but, as my dog and I get into the car for home,
I'm thankful that my Wildwood memories are as vivid as the call of the seagulls.

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