Magic

All morning the conversation tumbles

Soaked in anxiety. 

“It’s gonna be a humdinger” 

Is the old man’s muffled greeting, 

The drift towards concern in his voice

Betrayed by the hope for magic

Stirring behind his eyes. 

I surge through the day’s work.

When my headlights splash onto the garage doors, 

The clock still reads early afternoon,

But night’s high tide is flooding the low lying daylight. 

Ahead of me, tail wagging, snuffling,

The dog bounces across the field

Onto the leaf obscured path.

The woods are storm day grocery store,

Bread aisle empty. 

Undressed, unashamed the trees,

Open to embrace the swollen, dark water sky.

We plunge into the silence, 

Honey thick and equally as sweet. 

The pressure, deep sea heavy, gathers around us. 

Sighing wearily a breeze surfaces, 

The first flakes falling 

With all the purpose of a butterfly

Caressing the still frozen ground. 

The wind finds its footing

Crashing through the branches

Waves breaking on a rocky beach, 

Washing away our streaming breath. 

We stand transfixed.