I make black coffee and help you pack.
It's an hour down the mountain, another
30 miles to long-term parking. I wave
at your taillights and shut the door
as morning achieves the kitchen window.
I've got dogs to feed, and hummingbirds
sluicing down their plastic blossoms.
The logged south-slope waves its grasses
spiked with poppies. A dirt road's
always a welcome to walk: coyote scat
and quail tracks. The dogs disappear
on last night's scents and come back
panting to my whistle.
I'll find other stuff to do, not just
waiting. I'll listen to the news
that never fails to report the crash
of planes. And then I'll turn it off
to silence, which means robin, bushtit,
westwind in the ponderosa, garden
growing. A thousand miles from here
you're lost in a city. I send you
this quiet.
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