a crown

There would be a thunderstorm later, dogs would creep up the stairs, as if we were awake the catch them and scold, and then a muzzle on the mattress, a begging to make it stop.  But for now, in the lowing evening, just a breeze that would kick up the silver underbellies of summer leaves.

We spent the evening at Powderhorn Park, home of holiday fireworks and pagan parades, celebrating the birth of a certain Colleen McCarthy, one of my favorite things to come out of my study of poetry.  And what a beautiful evening it was!  Maya explored the earth-world with her mouth, patted a toad, and our small group enjoyed Colleen's rice and beans and avocado, stuffed grape leaves, currants and blueberries and mango juice.  We spoke of reality television jargon, Derrida and Oslo, gender neutrality and other divisive parental topics, Amy Winehouse and the age twenty-seven.

It was also our last evening with Colleen Coyne (two Colleens in one bunch!), who is moving with her husband-to-be, Bart, to Atlanta, where he has a post-Ph.D job awaiting.  It's sad to think of our little group splitting, though we knew it would happen, and already we lost Amanda to Iowa last summer.  And now we are three.  We spoke of writing projects, perhaps even a crown of sonnets, and a winter road trip close to the land of my childhood.

After a night of thunderstorms, Maya is in her swing, crying towards a nap, and the dogs are less disturbed at this upset, and we gear up for our first flight with a baby.  I am trying to decide which poet to bring with me to Cape Cod.  I will share the poems with Maya as bedtime stories, read to her quietly as the plane rises and falls, slow breathing in the sky.