Three days into retirement, I am still up before dawn,

Coffee wafts out from the thermos snugged in the console.

 

New duty station Chaos,

not where anyone planned.

 

Windshield wipers swish away fog, spots, grime.

 

Wrinkled hands grip, signal, adjust, steer

 

From the city in the rear-view mirror:

               Today’s weather forecast.

               A check on traffic. Pandemic news, at the top of the hour.

 

The ambient glow of a job I loved. Co-workers like family.

 

“Be happy!”,  my children scold.   

 

“Congratulations!”

              

On the Golden Oldies station, a harmonica bends a note.

 

The North Star GPS is silent for hours.

 

The car plows deeply into the fog and darkness.

 

Burdened trucks grind slowly uphill on the right.

 

Just for today:

               Watch for signs,

               The sparkle of deer.                      

                                                     Breathe.                

 

Obey vehicle traffic laws.

              

As the sky streaks orange, I am in retreat from sunrise.

No blast of light to assault the eyes on this trip west.

 

Shadows start to emerge on the periphery: 

 

               Mountains at the horizon,  

trees green,

                                                            a red barn.

 

Where a farmer straddles a three-legged stool,

Shoulders the side of a spotted cow,

And warm milk fills

Her bucket.