A Green Van on a Flatbed Truck

Headed north, I drove up to the intersection.

At the cross street, a flatbed tow truck

waited for the light to change.

A few minutes later, that truck drove on eastward

and I noticed it carried a faded olive green,

moss-covered delivery van.

It must have been left by its owner

in the damp and rainy Oregon weather.

It would no longer have been covered in a garage or shop.

I imagined a scene

in which the van stood dejectedly,

in a field like a horse

left out of the barn in a rainstorm.

Left outside, It's owner

would no longer drive, fill its tank,

change its oil,

or put air in its tires.

Deserted, month by month,

year after year, moss grew.

It covered the van tightly.

the way moss covers an ancient tree-limb.

It looked like some bizarre man-made plant.

 Where was the van going?To be crushed in great man-made jaws

at a plant in Albany, east of here?

If so, it would be made into tiny flakes of steel.

Those flakes would be melted

until they no longer resembled

the van in any way.

I imagined that owner as creator

of a business born of a passion,

like baking specialty artisan breads

or creating delicate pastries

When it was new, the delivery van

gleamed white and

I pictured it polished by its owner.

It could have been as shiny as were

the new hopes and dreams

of its owner, whose personal life

and business intertwined.

But I saw the van on the flatbed truck today.

And on its side panel,

I could barely discern the faded words:

Making a Difference. 

Camaraderie Around the Campfire

           - our fishing vacation on Vancouver Island, BC

Giant storm-driven  driftwood scatter the beach like tinker toys.

Our boats bob ever so slightly, tied with long ropes

 to save from changing tides.

In this safe protected cove.

The quiet comforts us and

holds us close in the darkened trees.

A calm sea gently laps only feet away

 and seems to befriend us this night.

Collected wood burns low,

Someone props a grate  over glowing, orange coals.

Scents of fresh grilling salmon, damp soil, salt air,

 wet ferns and lichen-covered firs drift upward.

Salmon is dinner we caught this morning.

Prawns are appetizers we hauled in this afternoon.

Better than a five star restaurant.

Heaven to us, hungry fishermen.

Smoke stings our eyes and chases us around the campfire.

We scoot chairs closer to the waning flame.

They sit crooked in the pebbled beach.

Daylight fades and will beckon us early tomorrow morning.

At the end of a successful day,

with weary eyes and in hushed tones,

 we speak of lures, the best fishing locations,

of new knots and the right depths to fish.

A low chuckle escapes someone

 with a story of lost gear and near misses

 and winds around the circle of friends.

Time stretches its lazy arms

 to tease us and to free us.