The day before the shortest day of the year
we drive to town to do errands,
stop at Robert’s Books to drop off a box for store credit, or to be
donated to the library,
drive past the feed store by mistake,
drop off the glass for recycling, remembering now that we forgot the batteries,
stop at the Goodwill to drop off a couple bags of clothing,
the bank to get cash to pay Jim for installing the closet doors,
Barnacle Bills for just under a pound of freshly caught salmon,
return the cans with deposits for recycling at the grocers,
pick up just enough at the store to last the few days before we leave for Christmas,
stop at the department store for face cream with the added bonus of the man ahead in the checkout line who spends $110 on condoms and Viagra,
now remember the feed store for black sunflower seeds for our crow overlords,
the hardware store for putty to hold the window screen in that keeps blowing out in the
winds,
finally, street tacos from our favorite food truck and a couple drafts of IPA,
then, almost home, leave the coffee that Aisha ground for Rhonda on her front porch.
At sunset we walk down to the shore in unseasonably mild weather, where we meet our neighbors and watch, first, the sun set, and then, the running lights of the crab boats–eleven of them we count–blink on suddenly on the horizon as darkness falls.
