February 18, 2020

daffodils

At the town park, a curved path takes us variously through fountains and garden beds,
a playground, a war memorial, a plaque commemorating the famous artist who made
his home here. We are outsiders, just traveling through. Later, we will sleep anonymously
in a motel room off the interstate, but now, walking our small, aging dog, we could be 
old-timers, alumnae of the local college, high school teachers burning off steam. 
When a woman with a slate-grey Yorkshire terrier rounds a corner, her smile breaks wide,
as if in recognition. Behind us, spring has entered the daffodils, their bright bulbs splayed. 
It feels like a dare. Soon our own strangeness evaporates, and we stop and say hello, bend
to scratch the other dog’s ears, our own petals unclustering, as the low sun pauses 
in the small circle we have made, without knowing, around each other.