for over 60 years
the gardenway motel
its neon sign
still taking in
weary travelers

eye surgery scheduled
the day after

mother's day

she says the fire pinks
are her favorite flower

each tv sporting
a different program
at pat's bar and grill
the menu
rarely changes

unchecked fields
of clover
their reach extending
well beyond the nails
of a worn out fence

we arrive at a place
where a town once stood
the river moving so fast
only thunder
could follow it

over oil infested waters
a seagull
risks its own life
to eat a fish
that's already died

walking miles and miles
to find the right stone
the clovis people
made spears like they were
making fine jewelry

saving electricity
during a power outage
the static of the hand cranked radio
worse than tuning in
to rush limbaugh

all night on edge
in the quiet
that precedes
another round
of violent weather

when tree branches spin
like the arms of a ceiling fan
it takes 13 seconds
to run from our kitchen
to the basement