Walk

His shirt, my boots, bought for a broken foot.
My sweat, everyone's air
and shade and sun and
breeze.

And shade and sun and breeze.
And breeze.

Birds call and sing, I breathe.
A dog barks
a few houses over, through the woods
and when a car comes
I put away my pen
and keep walking

uphill.

This side of the block that is no block
is all uphill.

I could never escape
over the Alps
with a captain and seven children,
and certainly not
while singing.

"Good morning."
"Hello."
Is the man digging in the new yard
at the new house
digging because he is afraid
of loss or bills or
the slowly warming day that brings some
heat inside the slowly shifting shadow
and sun and shade and sun?

Or does he dig because he likes to dig,
I wonder.

The people at the corner house
where the street goes around have fenced
their yard
and provided a small pasture
for their young, black, still slightly furry
steer.

He looks at me -
or tries to -
and inclines his overlarge ears toward my feet.

And he is not afraid.
And sun
and shade
and sun
and shade.

The kids up here have made a ramp
across the ditch
and they are taking turns
and shouting instructions
and hurtling themselves into the road
and I cannot help myself.
I have to tell them to be careful
of the cars
that never come.
I have not seen any up here as I walked
through this morning's sun
and shade.

Up the hill to get the mail
from the box by the road,
and down the hill to our driveway, checking
for spiders
before I pull the paper from its garish tube
and walk up again.

The driveway at the end of a walk is uphill
and I decide to walk up the newly mown
hayfield instead.
It's all sun out here.
I walk between the rows of hay
because I should not trample
next winter's bales
before they get picked up.

And I decide to walk again tomorrow
and leave more of this fear
and caution
and warning
and distance from my life
and pass through sun and shade in the cool of the morning
on the other side of the woods.