The day has come

when it is down to just one.

The stroller is light and I push the simple boy of my likeness

through the golden grasses

of a season unsurpassed.

His head turns from side to side

consuming the prairie dogs and the far off coyote.

We break to hear the notes of the creek,

hold our breath for sounds that cannot be imitated

even through the most sincere efforts of technology.

And this, the simple boy seems to know.

Funny how the day has come

when it is down to one

and the lighter stroller is not easier to push.

Soon

I will run alone.

And there will be no uncomplicated fervor for the seasons–

No little partner endorsing the intonations of creeks

and wind

and newness of life in the prairie.

And I will be forced

through memories of their transience

to see it  through my own eyes

again.