Bluebird by Guy Yasko

I wake to the rain on metal roof. I want coffee and breakfast, but i’m not ready to be wet, not yet. I move up to the driver’s seat. Why not? I check the mirrors. There’s nothing to see; too many raindrops, too many blackberry bushes. Dexter’s books are on the dash, some half-open, spine-up. I peek. The feeling of excitement disappears in the teachings of Don Juan. I fall asleep. When i look up there is a woman at the door. She doesn’t knock. I crank open the doors. Rain drips between us. — I was looking for Dexter. — Not here. Check his place? — Not there either. — Well, come in out of the rain at least.

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