Trip

Trip

We are headed to the airport, pull into a lot, compelled by hunger.
There is no shade, we park under the wing of a seagull.
The smell of ocean lingers on her feathers,
her search for food heavy on her beak.
I bite into a tomato sandwich fresh off the vine.
Juice and seeds explode, with visions of summer, farms, rural living.
Fast food crows chew wood near the car, their bodies blacker than tar.
Petunias in baskets seem to float overhead,
their magenta petals fluorescent in the smoke dull sky.
We receive sad news, take it in stride.
A willow weeps at my window, her green leaves whisper, the tree stands weathered.
Two silver banners wave welcome, another shouts sale.
An American flag undulates above.
We pretend to go on a trip, not fly for surgery.
The air will be warm, the sky clear, we'll dine outside.
Our hunger can't be satiated.
It is bigger than us, bigger than country, continent,
spreads with wildfires and a rampant virus,
is caught by children who miss friends, their lives vacant like their schools.
The grey sky, red fires, once green earth makes me miss snow.
I'd like to see its clean white cover tower on tall redwoods,
blanket us in comfort for a while.