tuesday morning in cross village and schenectady

(my friend sings in public for the first time
in years and I am not there)

Looking west, the distance from this porch
to the lighthouse is about two miles.
To the north, the fields roll out to forest
and the treetops make a jagged horizon.

The world is big enough here,
framed by great lake and great lake sky,
a space in the center for coyote, cranes,
and the deer who watch us and stamp their feet at the house.

Beyond this place could be anywhere,
any language or way of living.

The gravel drive disappears into trees
and I am thinking now that on the other side
of that stand of oaks
(if I could just see ten yards further)
must be the place where
the driveway becomes a path which becomes the sidewalk
which runs past the front of your house.

A humming bird was hovering uncomfortably close to my head
this morning as I drank coffee.
The pair of cranes in the yard were dancing frantically
to chase away the deer.

After two days here, you start to get some small notion
of what has been missing,
what got lost.

You fantasize about disappearing into the woods,
about planting yourself up to the shoulders
in the field next to the apple tree
and waiting for what comes next.

And yet, like I said,
just past the edge of what the senses know,
there you are, an old friend,
as necessary as an early morning coyote sighting,
or a generous length of blue lake,
and as welcome, as far removed from daily life,
weekly life, monthly life.

Come Sunday, I will be home again,
walking the dog on city streets, checking the mail,
listening to a familiar mix of
cardinal calls, construction, busses on the half-hour.

In northern Michigan,
the cranes will be leaping,
the wind will continue to blow the field grass and birches,
and they will make a sound like waves.

At the far end of the driveway there,
past the tunnel of trees,
my old friend will be singing her songs
to a café of well-wishers in upstate New York.
She will be smiling in that way she has,
where she looks like she has just heard
an especially satisfying joke.

I won’t be there exactly,
but from the place I am obliged to be,
I should be able to glimpse the light from the café window,
and to hear her last notes fold into the dark
as they mingle with the rattle of sandhill cranes
and the howl of coyotes,
the soundtrack of what matters.