Camp Rabun and Johnny Cash, 1970

We were just boys, Terry Fritts and I,
Away from home and family,
Both for the first time,
Up in the North Georgia mountains
Learning to place fingertips to leather orb,
To set eyes to goal
And let fly, to appreciate
The sweetness of the high arc
From hands to circle to earth again.
And afterward, trudging wearily back
For suppertime and twilight in the cool night air
In our rustic wooden cabin, screens for windows,
And a counselor from East Tennessee
He, with the habit of playing Johnny Cash, "Live at Folsom Prison"
Late at night, on an old portable record player,
So that in the darkness of our bunks, we learned the lessons
Of love and leaving, crime
And punishment, and lying, listening to the cries
And laughter of prisoners housed together,
Of their yearning and betrayal,
Until the day our fathers returned for us
At the end of our two weeks
And delivered our bodies back home again.