His daughter is learning to walk
in the yard, one white-shoed foot
in front of the other, tethered
to her mother by tiny hands
that want only to let go.
For days, the trees that line
the highway on the west side
of the soybean field softened
in the haze of smoke from Canadian
fires. Even the meteorologists
seem amazed to find the stuff
appearing on their maps, a pendulous
teardrop that will never really fall.
He wonders about a world of families
camping in the woods, mothers and
choosing exile and deprivation
over the possibility of anything
He can see them on the road,
cartop carriers and bicycle racks
moving through the smoke, moving
endlessly through days that seem
they will never end, until they do.
His daughter falls, stands,
then falls again, all a part of
that has her laughing in the grass
while the forecast calls for a shift
in the winds, arrows pushing arrows
across a map, as if they have a choice.
© by R.G Evans