LABOR DAY WEEKEND

 

Granite steps lead

to the cabin, surrounded by

a grove of birches

and firs. Pinecones leave

sap on our windshields in streaks

like drizzled crystal.

 

A late summer breeze hums

a choppy-wave, fresh

lake water lullaby.

 

Loons and crows, coons and deer—

my dog is riveted,

tiny muscles in her nose

tell her what’s true out here.

 

Inside they deal

cards for a fast-paced game

I never learned how to play.

 

I drink alone,

a disease of isolation, they say.

So explain why I often feel

less alone by myself

or maybe I need to

choose different company.

 

I once gave up alcohol and clocked

six years without a drop

but despite all the promises

I missed the kick and swoon

of keen feeling.

 

My dog rises

to all fours, quivering,

paw on point. I follow her focus

to the squirrel.

 

My breathing stops. I could but won’t

break the spell; I understand it’s not my place,

and I need her to show me what it means to be alive.