Crows Lodge
We have walked these streets since the beginning of quarantine:
Crows Lodge, Bear Paw Path, Elk Mountain, Smoke Creek.
The ignition of the red 50’ Chevy may yet turn over
for weeks now she’s been curb-locked, wheels-in, two streets over.
We walk toward the sun to shield him from heat and UV rays,
keeping his stroller partially covered, our baby in the shade.
We have yet to exchange names with the elderly couple
who greets us every day with smiles, passing words, a wave.
I hold our dog down with two hands, straddling her from the rear
while my wife pinches tweezers, gently pulls a tick from her ear.
Rain or shine, she stands her ground; growing coarse
from barking at the wind and the trees, neighbours and dogs.
As the sun goes down, we set out the sprinkler
and turn the nozzle, spilling water into the cracked earth.
Every branch of the neighbour’s tree that overlooks our fence
has shed its leaves overnight, covering the grass like snakeskin.
We spent your first Mother’s Day together as a family of three,
after supper, we watched the sun go down over the trees.
May 10th, 2020
Brandon McQuade is the Poetry Editor at Montréal Writes. He lives in Wyoming with his wife, Jacqlyn and son, Nolan. His debut chapbook, Bleeding Heart, has just been published by Kelsay Books, and is available on Amazon.
The Kindling 