Dusk
along the lane
only foundations remained
we traced them with our feet
stumbling occasionally
I stood inside one
he – just outside the one next door
for one moment
music lingered on the warm humid breeze
in September of 1941
there was no carnage
The old runway
evoked pre-dawn mornings
the palpable drone of engines
the smell of aircraft fuel
Ford Island
lay in the protected womb of Pearl Harbor
Second Sunday forecast snow. 915 – a tiny flake? another. more . 930 – only barren trees shrouded in a clouded sky. I’d been so – expectant, if only for a moment –and, had already told Maisie. She remembers ‘first snow’ (so long ago) silently falling through the darkness sensing it, barking till we went…
We drove home sated with gaiety, family, friends and food Beyond the traffic noise lay stifling heat and the silence that tolls the end of summer hundreds of miles rolled by town by city Out the window ‘Korean War Conflict’ hung from the license plate of a passing van I thought of the young couple…
Washington Idaho Montana nothing in every direction. we play with the cats for diversion passing them between our two-car caravan Wyoming breakfast at the Harley and Cowboy truck stop complete with petting zoo buffalo Dakota plains undulate and stretch forever creeping into my consciousness I watch them for a long time – young Indian boys…
Fascinating – high in the sky, flying free (with a safety line that might break and then again maybe not) – an exhilarating place to be. A flyer of kites must have faith to let go and toss it into the wind so it can rise to great heights. To know when to reel it…
Unable to reconcile a relative of the onion growing among grape vines…
No feral cats roam the island sit on windowsills sleep on forgotten front porches Trimmings that made houses homes days holidays seasons special. Gone. war came. duty called. Then the world changed. Snug in St. Maggie’s Dale cats hiss and scamper sneak around corners bivouac under a chair Jimmy the dog has come to stay…