By Milt Mays
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.