Life With Horace

poetry & essays

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as the day appears

out the kitchen window
tree shapes firming
into open sky, no clouds,
no stars either when I woke,
odd perhaps, but then it is
September, morning mist
that snakes through lip and rift
of mountain arms we sit below.
no birds yet, they are coming,
morning racers like my neighbors
on their way to work, engines
smoothly powering along,
except for one white truck,
rough run noise his signature,
not quite glass pack,
loving laying rubber
when he knows I’ll hear,
turning to the town and work,
the squeal is saved for later
and a certain audience.
I am grateful,