I parked under the carport,

pressed my head against the steering wheel.

Clammy and reeling,

the tremor in my hands causes my elbow to bump the glass window,

and my jacket softens the blow.

 

The bayou in front of my headlights,

illuminated with one lightbulb.

reflection of the elk drinking from the water– their own personal bucket.

 

I long for you next to me, in this quiet.

Your embrace and the aroma of cinnamon and vanilla.

I wish you were here, but it’s just me,

the earth, and the smell of beet root instead.