These

daybreak,

crack of dawn,

first light drives,

are something.

18 miles of back roads today. Roads I’ve never seen before, roads I’ll never see again.

I’m sure I passed a militia compound earlier, rifle ranges

visible from the road,

the defenders of or against tyranny, still grieving Rush Limdough.

The drama of the morning

light reaching across unobstructed expanses.

When I try to go slow, Impracticably slow, I collect impatient tailgaters, they bother me more than they should;

like gnats.

Don’t they see the sun shining on the pretty, the not so pretty and the unimaginably dysfunctional?

Does it not take their breath away?

Does it not make them wonder to dangerous distraction?

I pull over and up at a house that’s listed as a business, field stone sides the front looks like it once was a General Store, not any more.

I’m here to wait for Dave.

It’s our rally point.

A few minuets pass

the the owner approaches me,

a big Missouri man. It’s his home.

I’m actually trespassing.

He eludes to my out of state Florida plates… “people who ain’t from around here leaving their garbage behind” If I were him, I’d say pretty much the same thing I drove up on his grass with a massive Glampervan truck..

I apologized and explained the situation. I asked if I were to park on the gravel would he permit me to wait… begrudgingly he yielded to my request.

I have a zoom meeting it goes well. No Brody.

What I want to acknowledge this moment, is that my brain is overwhelmed by the scents of the morning, the coolness in the air, the shadows cast across ponds by ramshackle barns dripping stories. The sexy mist clinging to the earth’s gentle curves. I wish I could ask the barns some questions, I bet they’ve seen a thing or two.

The cocks crowing, the cattle, the calves nursing on their mamas. The horses,

I’d like to taste every front yard egg I see for sale..

There are more red birds, in the south than I feel is fair. Cardinals are to Missouri what sparrows are to Brooklyn. I won’t retain even a minute fraction of the beauty and the calamity. Who owns these misplaced mansions ? These towers of untold stories ?

I’m as conscious as a

river running over rocks.

I want to horde it all, gather it, selfishly relive each heart opening corner, I turn.

I wish you were here with me,

it would be more perfect.

But it’s pretty perfect. Tomorrow’s another day,

if the dealer of days deals me in.

Now I’m gonna feed the dog.