Sometimes, on a sunny summery day,
when I'm out on the stoop alone with my eyes closed,
I can hear the deer flies and insects humming in the air,
and smell the clean-tree scent of my Snake River valley home.
The day is bright and prime for floating.
We'll eat sandwiches on thick bread, cut vegetables,
and chocolate covered cookies.
I'll nap on the ground on a blanket--
homemade.
We'll turn red and brown in the sun,
then go home tired, to a backyard fire
with chips and s'mores:
a perfect day.
Then I open my eyes, and I'm in New Zealand.
It's the sounds of passing cars, and not insects, that fill the air.
and I wonder how I got here
and where I'm going
and who with--
and if I'll ever get back to that river, and those mountains
and those moments I love so well.
And if, in the eternal scheme of things, it matters.
Perhaps not.
Perhaps it's just heaven.
