BOB DAVIS ART
Out West
Remember that time, that place where we stopped, that trip
that we took? I couldn’t see where we were going then, but now
here it is again – here we are again. We’ve arrived back
at the same village, the same restaurant
covered in the smells of freshly baked cinnamon rolls,
slathered in frosting, overcooked a bit at the edges, burnt even.
The walls are tilting in a little more now, the faces
are cragged a little more deeply, and the icicles
no longer hang down along the roof edge.
Beneath the glaciated mountain passes
the long-lost ice front is no longer within our reach
(under the influence of the ice fields that tower above
in places where we can’t even begin to see them,
where the moraines are deeply pocked with the rocks
crushed under the weight of the receding glacier.)
The edge of the blue ice we came up to,
touched and walked on is no longer within our sight,
now receded back into the ice fields. The slow
inexorable retreat between Ice Ages.
The car idles gently while we forget what we came in here for,
bathed in the memories. The T-shirts are now blue, the hats green;
the dolls are trinkets made in China. But the cinnamon rolls
will do for now, and the screen door slams shut.
The ceramic trolls are lined up on the fence outside, guarding the lawn.
Are they not also under the bridge we passed, guarding the town
from the river flow? driving away the bad omens? The Dark Ages
are long past and the faeries no long scare us.
The woods are breached as the timber falls into place.
Ancient stands of trees burn in fires not under control,
not stopping at the highways; jumping the river
at odd moments, strange bends, long churning white
foam covered rapids. Water pours
from the firefighter’s face as he sweats it out
in the heavy uniform, equipment hanging loose.
Trees are cut down at strategic points
to create a break, as the last great old-
growth forests die in the New World.
We get back in the car and back on the highway and back onto the road
home; the road we choose to take this summer day as the sun rises
towards noon. The twists and turns in the road slow us down as we descend
further into the valley, heading west.