a kiss, a smile, and Alice backs
her truck out to go westering again.
On the deck I take my ease,
feet up on the rail.
Silver maple shades our small lawn.
Birds flit about the feeder,
tempting the hawk—sparrows at the seed, wary woodpecker on the suet, bracing with his tail. Goldfinch swings on the thistle bag. Doves and squirrels clean up underneath. The cardinals call. These feet are wrinkled, blue-veined, right one slightly swollen. Small toes, broken several times, tuck in. A hummingbird may come. My wife is gone.
On Tuesday, Alice will leave for her annual western trip. First stop is Boulder, Colorado, for her 70th birthday party with sons, daughters-in-law, grand-daughters, nephew and cousin. She will go on to the wonderful week of Burning Man in Nevada where she’ll rejoin the VW Bus Camp. She’ll shoot craps in Reno, then wend her way home camping at state parks.
A vehicle like Alice’s. No trees at Burning Man. It’s held in flat, barren desert, subject to heavy dust storms, ugh! rjn