We view the same length of road,
you and I, see the same physical scenery,
under the same sky with
the same sun shining down, yet,
see with different awarenesses.

Coming into the outskirts of
the small Arizona city brings cotton fields.
I marvel at the rows of buttery yellow
flowers, tinged with pinky red,
future cotton bolls resplendent
in summer’s thread-birth.
There are caterpillars
trying to scoot across the road,
not all of them make it safely,
this bothers me.

You see them, too. But you are also
checking out the tractors in the fields,
and some heavy machinery for sale
in the yard of an old farmhouse.
You rattle off names and makes
of cars and trucks you like, identified
by the headlights, or taillight shape.
I see your quick look at the gas gauge,
glances in rear view mirrors, then you
remark on the high price of a ton of hay.

I look ahead to the pecan trees coming up,
wonder aloud how they get at the top nuts.
I think they let the trees get too tall,
just a family’s small grove, personal pecans,
I’m jealous. Three crows are flying
towards the river, a line of green cottonwoods
define its location. Pairs of doves
are snuggled on power lines,
the town draws nearer.

You notice a new business has been built
and that the large storage and propane outlet
has many more clients, point out
the cherry picker, maybe for picking
pecans off the top of trees, you explain.
I smile.

I note the ditch we cross has a trickle of water,
a few straggly flowers hang onto life.
There’s a fenced field containing horses.
A roadrunner races along its straight line,
I quickly point it out. You smile.

You motion ahead, but I don’t see
what you mean, you snort, then
point sideways towards a parked line
of Harleys. I nod big deal, then direct
your eyes to the gorgeous red cannas
in front of the usual model home we go past,
they change the flowers with the seasons.

One more stoplight and you pull into a Texaco,
across the highway is the Wal-Mart.
You pump the gas and wash the windows
of the Tahoe. I look out
across the swaying sorghum plants,
towards the mountains. A dust devil
is swirling through a dirt field.

You drive us over to the store,
park far away from the doors. I see
the usual flocks of brown-headed cowbirds
searching among the vehicles for discarded food.
You lock the doors. I shoulder my purse.

Together, we walk into the store’s interior,
strengthened, eyeing the list
of our combined life needs.
We view the same length of the store,
you and I...

Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 11/29/03