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.

This article appears in February 22 2016.