Gordon Lightfoot and George Strait on the radio,
white cold—fastened—frozen bodies of water.
The chance at an orange-bellied brook trout—
flowing Minnesota, make my heart hum.
Woodcock, pheasant, grouse, pointer dogs,
a loud flush bursting from the brush.
That spot outside of town I lost my English springer spaniel, Tracker,
when I was in college, the old house we drive past
searching for a memory still stuck echoing in a Mahtomedi cul-de-sac.
A childhood friend who drives five hours
for a coffee, croissant, and hug—”I love you.”
A crappy cup of $2 gas station sludge—I miss so much—
held warm in my palms as I press my boot to the clutch.
A dirt road covered in snow. “Oh, you betcha.”
Surrounded by those I miss most—family, friends, whānau, and pets.
The startling realisation that time is like
shelf ice sliding down with the river.
