A Simple Drive

Before dawn, Sequoia
is already wide-eyed,
dusky-blue irises
watching dusky-blue skies,

so I fumble around,
get her to the front room,
change her, scatter birdseed,
pause outside in the mist

until the wind chases
me back inside to make
tea, turn on some music,
dandle Sequoia while

the dim day dawns. Sarah
is sleepy, up all night
with Sequoia's random
feeds, and by afternoon

we haven't dressed or left.
At one, Sequoia naps
an hour while I rock her,
and Sarah cleans the house.

The wind outside is fierce.
The air is full of dust,
and then, late afternoon,
finally, light, cold rain

strikes down the swirling brown.
Sequoia is crying,
and Sarah needs a break.
I pull on a jacket

while mother loads baby
into the truck's car-seat,
and then baby and I
go for a simple drive.

A ride always soothes her,
and she watches the rain
spatter her window, then
turn to sleet, slush, and snow

as we reach the La Sals
at the valley's east end,
through scrub oaks, aspens, and
giant ponderosas,

until the path goes white,
and we turn in the snow
and descend, heading home,
through the depthless white sky.