Morning Walk, Misty Day

Morning Walk, Misty Day

by Robin Shwedo

©: Robin Shwedo, 2014



Heading out for a morning walk on a misty day,

beginning of the new year,

the thought crosses my mind to stay inside.

There's a fine mist going on from the grey skies

and there's a slight chill to the air.

Any other day, I'd think cold,

but since there's been a recent record freeze nation-wide,

it really isn't bad cold.

Grey hoodie zip-up sweatshirt, check,

long black pants, check,running shoes, check.Past several houses and I'm in the park,

turquoise shoes getting muddy

on the damp dirt path.

Somewhere nearby is a

rhythmic thump-thump-thump

of heavy equipment.

Finally spot city trucks,

working in the mist to

spruce up the park –

horse trails,

little league baseball fields,

life in a small town.

Dirt, split-rail fence, trees,

all various shades of brown,

held up by green grass,

capped by grey skies.

Nearby stable, red paint peeling in spots,

horses outside in the fields,

breakfasting on hay and water

in the mist

while the two women who work the stable,

one, the owner, the other, a friend,

muck out stalls,

dumping soiled offerings in a fence-in pile

to be carted off later,

then replacing it with fresh woodchips,

putting fresh oats and water in each stall

before bringing the horses, now wet,

back in to be dried, brushed, and put back in stalls.

A radio in the tack room plays a country station;

Dolly Parton's melodious voice travels across the mist

like a lemon-light beam, which drifts off as I head away.

To the right is a stand of cyprus trees,

looking like pine trees turning brown, losing needles.

The tan leaves mingle with the dark brown muddle path.



Just before crossing the wet street,

I hit the large button that switches on

the yellow caution – pedestrian crossing light.

The path – really a short dirt road – is equally muddy,

though lightly, mistily so.

In one of the townhouses that backs against

the drainage ditch next to the road

the twinkling lights of a Christmas tree

show through the partially open curtains.

First thought: Do they realize it's January 9? Tree should be down already.

Who am I to say what's right,

what's wrong

in other people's lives?

Besides, the lights are cheery in the dreary misty mist.

A pale yellow box truck passes on the paved street ahead,

temporarily making a flash of color.

Finally,

I turn back,

pass the twinkling Christmas lights,

hit the flashing-caustion-pedestrian-crossing-light button,

see the barn, horses being brought inside,

the country DJ saying rain, all day,

hear the thump-thump-thump of the city trucks,

before unlocking the front door,

seeing two sleeping cats

and grab a cup of coffee.



Written on January 9, 2014 after a walk. I then sent a copy to my mother, who was in bad health. This poem is part of a new book of poetry tentatively titled Poetry for My Mother.