baa-ed, bound up the drive, dove
into the tall grass and weeds
with joyous crunch and pull

some still fat and round
with wool, others sheared,
shorn to summer skin

frogs sang familiar pond songs
birds too and I breathed in
the sweet air of home

after four days of moving Dad
away from his. Guilt. Relief.
A small smile.

Dad loves the pie, his courtyard
view, creamed peas that taste
just like ones my mother made.

The server pats his back
seeing him relish
such simple things so.