Today was unusual,
while crossing a rocky
path, my 42 year old
son reached back offering
his hand to steady my
steps of progress.
A small thing at first glance.

When for all these years
it was me holding his hand,
guiding his path.
Age has intervened,
Now our roles have reversed,
as it does, as it must.

Accepting this reality
the only path to choose.

Waking two hours before dawn,
my young grandson and I,
The old stagecoach Inn was
dark and silent, squeak
of floorboards underfoot the
only discernible sounds.

A crowd of deer bounded away
off the green front lawn as we
sleepily made our way to the truck.

A bright yellow full moon was on
descending ebb, in a star clustered
sky, allowing just enough light,
to light our way by.


The high desert two lane road was
fully deserted, only our headlights
pierced the darkness. Within seconds
they began to appear, darting from
both sides of the narrow road, as if on
a mission, hypnotically attracted to our
headlights I assume.  At 60 miles an hour
almost impossible to miss.
But, god knows I tried. "Thump, Bump!"

"Thump, bump!" Another bunny under my
wheels, swerving not really mattering, miss
one hit two others. Jackrabbits and cottontails,
as if Kamikaze inspired, eight or ten at a time
from both sides of the road darted headlong
trying to cross. Fast as they were some did not
make it.

We stopped counting the carnage near 100 hits,
no way to tally the many we missed.  No joy in
keeping score of the newly departed. By the time
we reached the Alvord Desert, the ride transformed
into a 25 mile surrealistic trip. Who could have
known there could be so many?

Blood on my tires and my soul, I did not intend.

Out on the vast dry white, hard caked, once long
ago lake bed, now desert, we sat watching the new
day's sun rising up from behind the distant eastern
mountains. This quiet inspiring moment having
been our goal of intention.

All the while, I was distracted from the
magnificent scene before us, as I kept
seeing and hearing the repeated echoes of;
"Thump, Bump! Thump, Bump! Oh no,
not another!" In my guilt ridden brain.  
Why they do it I can not say, compelled
perhaps, like moths to a flame.

I fell headlong into
the depths of her
captivating deep
blue eyes,

Now I'm drowning
in the endless sea of her
unquenchable expectations.

Early morning fog off the river,
crawling, spreading like smokey fingers
caressing the low rolling flanks
of the predawn valley floor,
No breeze to disturb the stillness that pervades,

The silence nearly complete,
but for the last faint voices of night
birds before sleep requires they cease,
Answered by the cooing calls of a
morning dove, seeking out it's mate.
One shrill voiced Whippoorwill competes.

The heavenly songs of flocks of geese,
high above on the wing,
moving in precise migration formation,
across the grey-blue sky.  

East across the valley,
in majestic back lighted,
rising sun silhouette,
the purple hued mountains
stand as a lofty shield,
stealing and preventing
rain to fall on the eastern desert.

This morning sight of rebirth and renewal
is never tiring for my sleepy eyes to view.
To rise so early, ah now, that is the challenge.

The long awaited sun is
high and pleasantly warm,
The swallows have returned
and all is well in my world.

I turned away for what seemed a brief bit of time,
Life got in the way, work, family, other joys.
When I returned to my sweet friends on HP
nothing much looked the same, unfamiliar,
even strange.

Then there are all those unknown names,
Talented folks among them for sure,
but too many to count and begin to know.
Lonely alienation disconnect,
Like transferring to a new school in your, Senior year.

Change they say is a good thing,
even inevitable, most of the time,
But, where is that old loved gang of mine?

She comes to me with
seductive expectation
in her alluring grey eyes,
Bewitchingly she crawls
onto my lap, my chest.
Our mutual desire for closeness
quickening the mood
She puts her arms around my neck,
Our eyes locked in an intimate dance.
I take her beautiful face in my hands
stroking it's soft contours, as she
closes her eyes pleasurably succumbing
to the gentleness of my touch.
She begins to softly purr.  

We both understand these brief
loving moments can never last,
owing to my damnable allergy to cats,
Thus, soon back outside she must ****.