Eighteen.

18

In my mind I soar over the topography of my childhood. 

Stand at my bedroom widow gazing up the road. Searching

up the hill I now know was a great dune in times before my 

memory. In the distance, where my father would crest to 

horizon every evening on his walk home from the highway 

after his bus ride from work in downtown Albany; was a great

stand of pines visible from all of the surrounding landscape.

We lived, at the bottom of the dune, just shy of the wetlands.

In my mind I am standing at that window again and I am once 

again watching generations of turkey hawks ascend on thermals 

and settle in the great stand of pine trees, at the top of the 

dune, over the topography of my adulthood.  Cut down 

by a nescient world, bereft of Clio’s lyre.

Markle~

03October2020