Outdoor barbecues were rare.
But today there was a spark in my mom’s spirit.
We were outside, waiting in dying-leaf air,
My brothers and sister sat with our bowls of salty soup.
An old weather vane, stabbed in the yard.
An iron rooster atop, unmoving,
Black as night, and brand new.
I felt it moving, even though it couldn’t.
“Beef and barley, healthy and hearty.”
My mother said, and laded out a second helping.
Rainy day food, I thought, and I could smell it on the wind.
All we needed was bread. And money.
The sky was dark, gray clouds hanging in menace.
We briskly packed in soup, eyes turned up.
The weather vane told us there was danger.
But none came.
Later we ate more soup inside and it rained a little.
The weather vane was in the yard,
Waiting for its placement on the garage roof,
And there it would turn for years to come.
I am older now and see it still on the garage.
I think about the soup we ate, it was good.
Also, I think about how the sky was dark
Even as we ate.
All I could think about was that portentous danger
That never came.
