—for Vance Thompson at 57

On a flat lake
maybe half a lifetime
from a good meal,
tucked under a no-name ridge,
the fish aren’t jumping
but the morning fire’s
working just fine.
This spot’s as hard to find
as the start of a friendship
farther back in the trees
than most people go.
There’s water for tea & coffee.
Nobody’s eating oatmeal.
Nobody’s ready to leave.
Nobody’s going anywhere
until there’s talk and quiet enough
to catch up on one year to the next.

—for Jim Bodeen upon his retirement
after 33 years in the public high school
as a teacher of writing and literature

Light and shadow cross this path
and the few trees heave in the wind.

Here, up canyon, brush and thicket
rattle, narrowing the path to a few

safe feet of soft, dirt powder
ground from the canyon walls.

This canyon has been a river. Now,
it is sun and rock, wind and dust.

Wildlife lives and dies, here.
The path crosses all this

for the one walking
to high ground,

The canyon silt climbs
to scree and shale

and the path tops the canyon
where one sees ponies,

fine steeds, running
the open ground.

Rain on the railing splashes
ducks off the river

Splash beads slide along the railing
water striders on side-water

Rivulets off the railing hang
and fall between black doweling

Rain puddled on the deck twitches
raindrops quiet as fading bull’s-eyes