Morningshade retreats. Sunglint of chrome flickers past, panels of big trucks’ white glare: Atlanta traffic, beyond a Flannery O’Connor wall of ivy-hung trees and wires strung taut from pole to pole.
The pool, not yet open, hasn’t been inspected. ABSOLUTELY NO JUMPING NO DIVING. 5 feet deep at the deep end.
We’re here to buy a motor home. Here to initiate a new kind of life, two halves of a vagabond soul. Great Lakes await us, the distant deserts of the West. Alton, our mechanic, assures us: “Nothing worth seeing till you hit Nevada, Idaho, Route 5 along the Washington/Oregon coast, the grapevine in Cali.”
On Puget Sound
a foghorn calls my father, penetrates
Foghorns, Arthur Dove, 1929