Quiet Place Average Life

The quiet pour into my thermos fills the little

house with smells of caramel and coffee and home.

The steps of my boots on worn hardwood

floors echo against the dull hum of life that

bleeds in from outside.

My jacket rustles and the house groans as

my keys jingle and find their place in my pocket.

Early dawn light pushes through the

branches of trees outside and dances

against the drawn curtains of the bedroom window.

I stumble slightly as I push her auburn-

blonde hair to the side and kiss her head

while she still dreams of magic and life and love.

I take in the fresh morning air and smell of

the trees as the old oak door creaks open

and my good dog rushes by my feet.

I load my truck with my coffee, my dog, my

lunch and me,

as it rumbles to life and scares the birds in the trees above it.

I drive past streets we walk and trails I run

and small town shops that sell just enough.

Memories of lonelier places and a busier life

fade in the shadows of mountains—dancing

across pine needles on the road.