To See the Toe of the Giant

We left the squat cinder block building

that was the Jasper parsonage

on a cold wet overcast morning,

With golden sycamore leaves

covering the yard

and the little metal pedal cars

 were stored in the shed

Uncle Walter drove

the red Rambler east to Birmingham

the heater fogging the windows

as he steered through rush hour

to the top of Red Mountain.

I was four and wanted to climb the tower,

by now it was cold

and up on the mountain,

the goldfish pools had iced over.

I remember being amazed to see them

swimming beneath the ice.

We started up

the winding staircase

inside the tower,

before we were half way up

I tired and wanted to stop,

but my big brother wanted

to see the toe of the giant.

He took one arm,

my uncle the other

and they swung me up

 step by step

until we stepped out

into the icy wind

to see Birmingham

in the cold morning sun.