Puppies are running out

in dawnlight past the hedge,

their mother quick to herd them

home again. Mountain lion,

fox, coyote: nothing in the world

is safe.

But surely here's no threat,

the baby rabbit she fetches home

gently in her jaws.

>From where? we ask each other.

Harmless brush-bunny, or jack-

rabbit that grows tall/lank/springy

to vault our garden fence and live

tough and stringy off our green

welfare?

She's brought this baby home

and laid it at our door for us

to choose.

You crossed things off her list, the one she's honed

over 27 years of weekend camping trips together.

Everything is plural, but you took just one of each:

sleeping bag and pillow. You're going with your son,

the one who always leaves his wife behind, a guy-

thing. She helped you find the cook-kit and matches,

the paper plates and pancake turner. You'll buy

steaks and chili on the way. She'll finish

leftovers from the fridge.

On second thought you'll take those muffins

in the freezer, from last month's high Sierra

weekend when you slept together by a meadow

full of Indian spirits and mosquitos.

At last you've crossed off everything,

your left hand set to close the driver's door.

You've kissed her straight mouth and she

in spite of herself says have a good trip,

and turns back to the house. You drive away.

In spite of all the crossing-off, you forgot

the muffins.

You've given up an early dawn

fingering the pines, and grass that lends

its textures in this light. Already

you've traveled tail-lights, brake-

lights, the foot weary of the pedal,

traveled down through clouds.

A damp wind sieves these circles:

red and green crux of city movement

city blocks the lights always the same

colors of red and green as if

there were no other. Stop.

When people speak to one another

on this commute, it's weather

gossip traffic, not really asking

about this moment

of morning, somewhere between

waking and falling to sleep.

Every day of his life in the later years

he wrote a word on a scrap of paper

and slipped it into the jar.

The most interesting word he came upon

all day, he gave up to the jar.

"What will you do with all those words?"

We asked, who'd heard of uncles

saving dimes and quarters in great

green wine jugs, and finally dumping

them all in a Christmas stocking

for the grandkids. "What will you do

with them?" we asked. "Oh,

I go visit them at night, before

I go to sleep. Words, interesting

words. Sometimes, then, I dream

them. Sometimes I see them dance

together while I sip my sleep.

Some of them walk along beside me

in the morning or play behind the hedges

guess-me hide-and-seek." "But what

are they worth, though?" "I guess

that's for you to find out, unless

I spend them all."

Taylor Graham

piper@innercite.com