His Broncos cap lays upside down on the camper table.

I feel his small body moving in the trailer bed behind me.

The new day and the old star light the cap’s orange brim,

melt the frost off the boat outside.

We are warm inside.

 

I want his body and arms close to mine

before my light dies.

Lately, I feel it dimming, yet

as far as I know, I’m living, healthy,

happy to be in the mountains, seeing

wondrous water-ice melting in the morning sun,

in July mountains, yet

autumn is coming.

 

Green pines glow, 

a few aspen leaves flutter gold, 

tall green grass is streaked with yellow,

as blue sky fills with light.

A lone gray camp robber looks for life—

a crumb is all he finds.

Flapping off to the next campsite, his gray wings

turn silver in the new sun, 

photons glancing, bright.

 

Did those rays, those photons, those packets of energy

ever touch an atom or electron

on an Aquariids meteor shower

we saw and exclaimed “Cool!” to last night,

flying eons through dark,

empty voids, starting light-years long

before he brought his singular light

to jack joy in my life

of autumn in July?

 

“Hey, grandpa,” his words warm my back. 

I want to cry but won’t.

His light must see hope.