Small towns
A squad of red-wing blackbirds
perched on wire fences
squabbles
their short, harsh syllables. Swallows
overhead chase insects. Driving
through the back roads of small towns we
catch glimpses of abandoned gas
stations, rusting road restaurants, a self-
service vegetable stand:
Take your
strawberries and leave the money in the basket.
We trust you.
In South Haven, the soda fountain still
stands in the old department store dispensing
hot fudge sundaes and banana splits in clear
thick glass dishes, the aluminum stools covered
in red vinyl still spinning and swiveling, our legs
dangling way above the linoleum floor. Life
is mostly slow here, mostly
good, but then --
life is always better
when you’re on vacation.
To the small harbor
we saunter after our sweet break. A green
heron stands near the shore, unmoving, mulling
like a question, well-camouflaged among
the deeply green weeds that stand up straight,
the cattails splitting their seams, grey shadows
drawing their cover over sailboats, the water,
the pier. On the drive
back I glimpse a llama
sitting in a field.
She’s far away
from her real home, I muse, and feel sorry for her.
