274. The New Year

We look ahead to the end of the calendar,
to the page about to turn over into nothing
but a pale yellow wall that didn't fade with the rest.

Do we list goals
and dreams
and every little detail that we plan to achieve?
Or set a theme,
an idea too dangerous to contain?

We watch where our feet take us,
revel in the possibilities
like they're a warm blanket
on a cold, windy night.
We breathe in the trust,
the visions as they lay before us
like a deck of cards
ready to play.

273. Transience

The city seems strange but familiar

after more than a week in its maze,

like someone's moved a piece just enough

that everything feels wrong

and nothing fits together quite right

and nothing is stable or real.

272. The Effect of the Desert

Cold rain falls on us,
splatters our hair, our clothes, our skin;
we still notice it.

271. Delays

The queue to the ticket counter doesn't move,
this steady group of anxious people,
waiting to see if we can move to another flight,
if we'll still reach our destination,
those expecting us,
our connections,
but we all hear bad news of some form,
before we slink off to the small sitting area
to piece together a patchwork plan
from the tattered remains of our vision.

270. Chickadee & Squirrel

The chickadee approaches the downed bird feeder,
slow and cautious on its small legs
as it hops closer to the shiny black seeds
and the large gray squirrel feasting on the other side.
The bird darts in for a seed
before retreating a couple hops.
Unnoticed on the other side of the feeder,
the chickadee braves the feeder for one more seed,
its tiny beak mimicking the squirrels greedy paws
before the chickadee flies off,
leaving the squirrel to eat its fill.

269. Christmas Cookies

We cling to habits,
stamping too many cookies
we don't want to ice.

268. A Lament to the End of the World

Days have passed,
since the world was supposed to end,
one timezone at a time,
everything disappearing,
or dying,
or growing tragic at the top of the hour,
so that neighbors disappear before neighbors.
Everyone would watch and worry
at the inevitable disaster ready to strike
with the bell chimes,
wishing furiously that they'd never known
when the worst would befall them.

267. A Touch of Home

The roads are familiar
as I navigate through ice,
snow,
the intense glare of the arching sun,
and I do not fear much
as long as the lines are painted
and I know I'm on the American side.

Still, something remains just out of sight,
looming and maybe coming closer,
something ready to break this bubble
we're living in for one week,
something that will say
this doesn't make sense.

266. Snow Flurries

The newscaster promises snow,
thick white water clumps
to drift down from the sky
and blanket the grass,
the road,
the railings and decking,
so we can stay inside,
burrow in the blankets
without guilt.

Later, we step out into the world,
freshly-painted with ice and snow
that clings to our eyelashes,
touches our hair so delicately
that we know this cannot last.

265. Outside

I stay silent in the backseat
as we glide down the city road,
my eyes flitting from small businesses
to pedestrians
to rows of stoplights.

This is what it's like in a city.

The car stops and starts,
slips from one lane to another,
turns corners hiding buildings
I've never seen.

I think
I used to live like this.

And,
This is what normal is like.

And,
Living in the outback will never be the same
now that I've remembered what life is like
outside.

264. Piles of Blankets

The cold dances around my nose,
my fingertips,
my stiff and painful toes
as I burrow under the blankets
to escape
and be happy
that there is cold
to escape from.

263. Flying at Night

View from the airplane:
the towns look like galaxies,
small clusters of life

262. The Girl on the Plane

The girl on the plane
knows my name, my face,
and I know her face as well,
but I cannot place it in this context:
her face buried in a vampire novel
without saying a word to me.

I run through the list
of all the places in town
I frequent, but her face
doesn't fit into any of them.

Pride and decorum mean
I dare not ask,
so I spend 27 hours
searching my memory
until I unwittingly
remember the receptionist.

261. The Tourist

He darts out onto the overlook,
as I read the plaque,
compare the diagrams to the view.

He turns his back on the scene,
silent as a picture,
and holds his camera
to point at himself,
to capture his presence
at an overlook he didn't really see.

259. An Uncomfortable Angle

The butcherbird squats in the grass,
its neck twisted in an uncomfortable angle
and it doesn't move as I approach from behind
and the little miner bird hops closer in front.

I wait, hoping it isn't dead
but almost certain that I'm too late.

Then it twists its beak around,
head tilted back to look at me,
calm,
still not moving anything else.

The little bird flees, startled,
and I wait a moment more
before I too leave.

When I pass again,
moments later,
the butcherbird has left.

258. The Anatomy of Anticipation

The excitement starts as a tingling
in the base of my spine in the morning,
warm and welcome in an otherwise
routine day. It traces the vertebrae,
pausing to dance between my ribs,
over my lungs and heart.
It slides down my arms, up my neck,
to the edges,
the place where I begin and it ends
with a whispered declaration,
almost a battle cry.

Let's do this.

257. More Than Desert

The clouds make a rumbling
hum of thunder
and we rush to the windows
to watch the warm rain splatter
against glass, cars,
and people who cannot stop grinning
at the firm touch of summer rain.

Later, the humidity will stifle our lungs
and the birds will circle, seeming unsure,
but we'll appreciate the too-heavy air
because it reminds us of the too brief storm
that showed us there's more than just desert.

256. In the Grass

I walk along the dirt lawn
toward the path up the hill
when I hear the crunch
of something heavy on dry grass.
I look over at the denser area
but nothing seems amiss,
so I continue on until it happens again.

I stop, waiting to see what
emerges from the foliage
but I'm also ready to run,
on the off-chance I need to.

The tall grass moves again
with what must be a large animal
before the reptilian head emerges.
The goanna stands on its hind legs
surveying the area before disappearing
into the plant life once more.

I wait for another crunch-shuffle
and the head pops up again
like a prairie dog in the dunes.
It stays for a moment,
then disappears another time.

255. Struggling for Clarity

My eyelids droop throughout the training
and I feel ashamed every time I yawn
from my seat across from the instructor,
but it's better than actually falling asleep,
slipping into the silent dreams
of far away places that wrap around me,
hold on tight just for a little while.
I plow on, pressing my nails to skin,
in the hopes on staying focused
just long enough to make it through the test.

Still, I regret nothing from the night
we stayed up until the darkness almost left
as we discussed geopolitics, economics,
and the human condition
with friends.

254. Rain's Touch

When the rainclouds break
and the water hits the metal roof
in a sound so familiar yet so distant,
we clamber to our feet
and rush from under the patio's heat
and into the rain so cool on our faces
we can't help but grin,
helplessly excited to feel
something we'd nearly forgotten.