THE RIDGE


Every morning I would walk down the hill

Through the scrub pine

To the spring

Fill the water bottles for coffee

And set them aside

Ten yards down steam from the spring

Carved out of rock

A natural bathtub

There I would sit

Sunlight filtering through the trees

Lost in thought

Mid morning

Sitting on a seaside porch

An hour away

Under the crashing of waves

More coffee in my hand

The New York Times in my lap

The waitress

Coined by the proprietor

“Do Me Newme”

Brought me my brunch

As the daily cycle completed

I would be back on the ridge

In front of the fire

The neighbor with his older massive Irish Wolfhound would visit

Storm as a teenager would be dancing around him

We would laugh

My friend had the bearing and self assurance

Of someone who had only ever worked

On his own land

Through his smile

Looking at the two dogs he would say

He says, “I like you alright but I am not going to play with you”

I would cook dinner in front of the tent alone

Over the fire

I did that everyday

For 100 days

In mid September

I went back to se