The wet crescents left by the dogs’ tongues
licking spilled cat kibble from the cabin floor;
the strand of light, finer than spider-spun,
unspooling from the center of my chest
as a 20-pound steelhead slashes downstream
through the celadon waters of the Smith;
the gleam of water on Victoria’s flanks
in that moment of stepping
from the sauna into a wild Pacific storm–
vapor-wreathed shimmer, body gone;
the elegance of an elk track
cut in sandy streamside silt;
red alder bud-break in early March;
venison stew and fresh salmon,
garden corn coming on;
Jason asleep on a school night,
his bare right leg dangling from the bed
(geez, he’s getting big);
sliding a chunk of madrone
into the firebox on a snowy night,
damping the wood heater down
for coals to kindle the morning’s fire;
the way the terriers sneeze and leap and race
deliriously through the orchard
when they know we’re going on a walk;
raindrops still cupped in huckleberry
leaves hours after the rain has stopped:
I made 55 years today, still hanging on,
and though only fools lay claim to wisdom
I don’t know what else to call it
when every year
it takes less to make me happy,
and it lasts longer.