The farm was solace

a retreat to Self

after a week

of defense

against the pretense

of everything.

The city is never real

to me.

It’s loud

rushed

dirty

people looking

past

never seeing

here

never seeing me

never seeing you

hello from a stranger

considered a prelude

to some hustle

defenses up

car horn blaring

a challenge

or attack

rarely a tap of “hi”

animals struggle to survive

the onslaught of chemical sprays

poisoned water

and machines

the Friday after work and school drive

down I 35

sun setting of the right side

of the car

even that hot sun 

looks gently

in the evening

off the freeway

two lanes now

fewer cars

fading towns

off the two lanes

one lane now

rock road

no people

no houses

startled cows

on land not ours

white house

shining on the hill

our beacon

home

off the rocks

turn on to dirt road

two ruts for tires

to roll on

our cows now

they know this car

they trot

heading toward the barn

to celebrate our weekly arrival

the bird dog heard us

long ago

runs up and down the road

signaling to my

very hard of hearing grandfather

that we are here

we are here