I lie in the morning, somewhat estranged,
in my bed
down at my southern retreat,
after yesterday's migraine incident,
the likes of which always leave me strange,
the sense of self shuffled
like a deck of cards

I let the hours pass,
reading Gary Snyder's 40-years collection
A Place in Space

I hold my horses down here,
in the town of my youth,
waiting for a medical examination
of some gravity
in a week's time

If it wasn't for that opportunity
to swallow a tube
with a camera
to examine my esophagus,
I would have already been reinstated
up on the farm in the North Country:
a horseman and a poet and a skier

The sudden roar of a jetliner rolls in
from the airport, some miles out,
rattling the windows,
as the passenger plane accelerates
down the strip, taking off
through late October
from a former military air field
where I spent many a day
in the 50s and 60s, watching
the jet fighters rising and sinking

Today I'm old and shuffled,
though soon to hit 30 miles
of stubborn mountain biking
and consecutive hours
of recording 1960's diaries,
unsure of myself
but sure of death,
seeing it rummage all around,
Guido Zeccola its latest game

Yesterday, right before the migraine hit,
juggling my senses,
I missed an obvious chance,
that won't ever reappear,
to make a great recording
of three little girls in the playground,
banging their up-turned buckets
with their spades,
over and over again,
conferring, then banging again,
making up songs
of the utmost talent and inspiration,
keeping it up for at least twenty minutes

I had just come home from the store,
rushing in, getting my Zoom recorder,
putting it out on a rail on the open staircase,
directed towards the little artists,
but forgetting to push record...
and now this note – and my memory -
are the only places where some of that performance
remains