cul de sac

lights flick on

first the nurse

a dialysis veteran

she greets her firefighter husband

coming off a long...and busy shift

one quick kitchen kiss

then away

more lights 

construction worker

knotting up his boots quick

rushing out the door

helmet, tools, coffee

off with an F150 rumble

then a burst 

light after light pops on

teachers, government workers, 

moms dads school bus kids

dog walkers hustle

a few retirees zip out

newspaper under their arms

7am coffee waits

the sun pops up over

the split ranch house

as the last car leaves 

the cul de sac

School

school

a cigarette bookmark

marking my place 

in some used Tolkien tome

lit up by a campfire

reading it again

under patio lanterns

school

flipping the cassette tape over

reading Salinger, Hemingway,

Kerouac

Guns and Roses 

low in the background

school

filling moleskin

after moleskin

with poems, sketches,

lists of backyard creatures

school

the one or two...(maybe a few)

beautiful authentic teachers

school

from dropout, to teacher,

to old tired monk

a classroom

first it was the former Yugoslavians

like Marko running with his family

to Canada

bullets ripping through his house

right over the dinner table

then Somalian teens

who'd never been to school

seeped in violence

bristling with anger

followed by Syrian girls

falling in boot sticking mud

and more zinging bullets

landing months later

in a gang riddled neighbourhood

new city - more guns

now a Ukrainian girl

she can speak three languages

but not English

she sits quietly in the back

sinking deeply into her desk

a sprinkling of Libyans, Lebanese, 

West Africans, and Haitians...

for 75 minutes

we sit, laugh...even learn

binding us together bit by bit

in unconditional hospitality

lakeside path

walking stick swings in steady rhythm

the tired monk walks the path

up and over gnarled pine roots

and broken bedrock

heeding the mossy patches

just a bit further up the high bluff

stops

pours tea

breathes in woodland air

takes in lakes, a creek, a beaver pond

one lone island

a red fox wanders

out of the junipers

looks for a moment

smells the air

turns back 

the way she came

two kits follow

the monk sips 

one more taste of green tea

pick up his walking stick

jogs down the hill

laughing

 

the abbess appears

the old monk sheds his sandals

wades into the mucky ditch

swinging his sickle

mowing thick swamp grass

just ahead of torrential rains

pulling heaps of vetch

stuck in choking muck

rakes, shovels, loads

three heavy barrows full

the water runs free at last

down through the culvert

into the low valley stream

the abbess appears

smiles

offers a dark rich

French press coffee

Ranching

my first job: was on a ranch

creates cowboy visions

of mountains, cold creeks, 

patting the neck of a beautiful horse

oh the romance

more so

shoveling horse shit...the literal kind

flecks of creosote paint

burning my hands

rich girls in clean new jeans

laughing as I wheelbarrow by

Sierra Nevada "1957"

Townes is playing

he's fingerpicking a Martin

under a sequoia tree 

he yells out:  "this one's called red wine blues"

Jack laughs 

hoists up two jugs 

and takes a healthy slug

and passes it to his young wife

more people arrive

walking up the winding path

Gord, Stephen, John, Benjamin...

and many more

some are holding cases of Labbatt 

over their heads

then dumping them into

troughs of ice

Gary wanders down

from his mountain shack

he'd been up there cooking

all afternoon

huge pots of chili

we start to spoon it out

two California girls 

top the bowls

with shredded cheese

everything shimmers...fades

a robin starts to sing out

into the dawn

a crow joins in

a final ethereal glimpse

of Gary smiling