Stream crossing, train whistle
among the beech leaves rustling
and a vulture swings down low over the boardwalk
when the engine light barrels over the causeway
and the geese lift over the dormant buds,
a shimmer in the water’s mild ripple, in the liquid
where the deer bounding and the dog barking
and the family laughing their way
to the dusk gate closing, though none of us there
were closed or will ever be as long as we remember
what we saw or how it felt to us on that day,
just a day, normal,
a normal day.
