Wheeling sound outside my door.
I leap to my feet,
Rummage in the garage.
Later, crystalline feeder swaying,
I fold my arms, surveying the snow.
Sun-warmed boards underfoot,
I watch his favorite tree.
Has the horrible hummingbird returned?
Rumors placed them only miles south last week.
Our home has been muffled in hushed snow.
We are braced, again, for epic battles on our porch.
Later, when the dog barks at a rumbling truck
And I eye the yet-empty feeder,
I pause to notice the distinctive whine.
Is it just a bad axle?
Perhaps war waits for another day.
Eleven years ago he woke up a tripod, an amputee, an AmpuTater.
Shhhh. Don’t tell. He hasn’t missed a beat.
Able to conquer three-level cat towers in several bounds,
Still counter surfs at every chance.
He’s best at singing the song of his people, preferably at 4:30 am.
Tater, cat-dog had yet to fail at winning over every “I’m not a cat person” he’s met.
Meet Tater the Terrific. Tater the Best, Tater Tyrant of my Heart.
Happy Sweet Sixteen, Taterbug.
That girl had a dorm room:
Sheets in hospital corners,
Underwear folded, just so,
SAMI meant inspections.
Who knew she would still
Fold underwear, just so?
Make her bed every day?
Even hang her clothes that way?
That the room represented
a way of life
That she followed for twenty-
six more years?
And when she retired,
remnants living in the folds,
she wouldn’t miss it?