Today I am forty-five years old. Which is halfway to ninety, a number I do not even remotely expect to see. I am acutely aware that I don't have all the time in the world.
This year is "shit or get off the pot year." (I just typed "shit or get off the poet" which may be painfully apropos.)
Driving up to my mom's this afternoon, I counted fifteen turkey vultures before I gave up and stopped counting. They were everywhere, soaring over woods and fields and roadkill, soaking up the hot sun on their broad black fingery wings.