November

These days after

You ride your bike alone through the woods. You pedal the low-line south, out onto the pavement; the waning gibbous Moon is like a wisp of cloud in the late morning sky. You cross the trestle bridge over the river, then turn north; leaves tumble under your wheels.

You cut back into the woods where there is no trail. You use your bike to bushwhack through the tangled growth. You march resolutely along until you’re standing under the towering cottonwood. The Sun is overhead now making it hard to find an angle through the bare branches; you squint your eyes and there it is, the eagle nest. You get out your binoculars and study the construction of the eyrie; you touch your hand to the tree; you feel the deeply furrowed ridges of the bark. You close your eyes—a wordless psalm.

You follow a deer path out of the woods. Back on your bike, you head south again. The Sun is warm on your black windbreaker, the air cool on your cheeks. You ride back over the river and onto the Owl Trail. You move slowly through the trees, scanning the brush for wildlife, through the Rock Garden, and past the Brickyard.

You ride up the sidewalk into winding streets thick with pickup trucks, leaf blowers, and lawn signs. You turn onto your street, and there shining amongst the houses is your home.

You walk in the front door; the dogs, Bentley and Dozer, greet you with exuberant kisses—every return is a celebration. Up the stairs into Annie’s arms. Love. Together, you look out the picture gallery windows over the river—the view is a pleasure that never gets old.

You take the dogs for their second walk of the day. You circle the neighborhood; Dozer tugs on the leash after fox squirrels; the dogs sniff everything, like reading a book—some sentences more interesting than others.

Annie makes dinner. You sit at the dining room table, Dozer at your feet. Pulled pork, white rice, plantains, and salad with cheese-filled picante peppers. You relish every bite and go back for seconds. You wash it down with a glass of cold water.

You sit with Annie in the fading light and read. You are currently occupied with seven different books: fiction, non-fiction, poetry, history, and philosophy. You keep a notebook and pen close by and jot down words, sentences, and ideas.

You play with the dogs in the downstairs carpeted Romper Room; a game of fetch and chase ensues, broken up by intervals of hugs and kisses.

You climb into bed with Annie and the dogs. Sanctuary. You drink peppermint tea and peruse your books. The dogs nestle into your body; it’s a tight fit with no room to move. Happiness. You turn off the light. Just as you’re drifting off to sleep, you hear an owl hoot—you smile and nuzzle deeper into your pillow.

You stay in bed as the morning opens; you stroke and kiss the dogs. Words come into your mind, and you hold onto and play with them. You watch out the window with Dozer and see a juvenile eagle bank over the trees. You rise and dress in the soft pink light.

You drink a glass of water and pour your coffee. You walk downstairs to the morning table. You look out at the bird feeders—the American goldfinch visits in its autumn hues. You pick up your pen and begin to write.

The push and pull are over. I open my calendar and look at silent, empty pages. I’ve ridden the highway home—out of the seething barrel and into a peaceful inner harbor. I welcome the quiet glory of these days after.

We are going to be grandparents—I’m going to be a grandfather. It won’t be long now. Baby Ella will be here—in California. It’s hard not to be close, not to be there, not to be on call. I always imagined we’d all be in the same place forever, but our family is strung like Christmas lights across the map: a pin in California, one in Iowa, one in New York. The time and miles between are heartrending. A grandchild will make it even more so. From Iowa, Annie and I cheer the kids on, always planning the next visit. And now, on our next visit to California, we’ll hold our grandbaby.

Meanwhile, I’ll be with the mallards down at the pond; I’ll be running along the river, watching the eagles; I’ll be on a bike-hike through the woods; I’ll be lazing on the couch with the dogs; I’ll be watching cottontails grazing in the first light of the day.

A buck makes his way through the yard, steam rising from his muscular body; the woods are bursting with reds, yellows, and oranges. Four American white pelicans circle over the river.

I winterize the house, put the patio furniture away, and detach and store the garden hoses. A new bookshelf is delivered in a slim box—I pull out the numerous pieces and organize them on the floor. I turn on Sade and pick up the Allen wrench; Dozer watches closely and offers his support.

I walk the dogs at sunset via rucksack, Bentley tramples through piles of leaves.

I pick up the dogs to put them in our bed; they are in ecstasy. We fall asleep to the song of the wind. Dozer spends the night sharing my pillow, snoring in my ear.

Daybreak is my alarm clock. I open my eyes to treetops aglow in golden brushstrokes; the river is a sheet of cool blue glass; a hot air balloon drifts across the page.

A Cooper’s hawk is in the backyard this morning, and Annie makes peanut butter French toast for breakfast.

I go for a run along the river, and I see a bald eagle eating a fish on a sandbar.

Birding by bike; the afternoon sun is diffused by an ocean of clouds; white-tailed deer bound through the trees, their tails waving like banners. I navigate the winding trail; my thoughts stream freely and organize themselves.

We spend Thanksgiving with friends, welcomed into their family. Football, turkey, green bean casserole, chicken noodles on mashed potatoes, cranberry fluff, laughter, Yahtzee, and pumpkin pie.

The snow has begun to fall in the gray-blue twilight. I pull out the Christmas decorations; Annie starts a fire in the fireplace and plays Vince Guaraldi on the turntable.

We wake up to animal tracks across a blanket of snow, the dogs rush playfully out into the yard.

The bird feeder activity is at an all-time high; house-finch, dark-eyed junco, cardinal, white-crowned sparrow, American goldfinch, hairy woodpecker, and more crowd the feeders; a bluejay arrives.

I shovel the driveway and the walkways; I shovel out the apron and the curb in front of the mailbox; I’m out there for hours. My neighbors use snowblowers—they make a lot of noise and smell bad. I sit at my table and write a poem:

Give me a shovel
I’ve got the time
I’ll clear the walks
I’ll clear the drive
I don’t need a motor
I don’t need gas
My work is better
Yours twice as fast
What’s inconvenient
For me, is a joy
Energy and muscle
Is all I employ
You take good enough
And that’s what you get
I like the hard way
I like to sweat

Bentley rests his head between Annie and me in bed. We drink our tea and read; Dozer works a nylon bone at our feet. Thirty days home. I can’t believe I was ever gone that long—all of October, the summer, and all those years. How? This is where I want to be. Where I need to be. The push and pull are over. The scales have tipped.

You ride your bike alone through the woods.

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Read more of my Des Moines River Journal:

Dog Days - September 22, 2025
Open Doors - June 3, 2025
Happy - March 28, 2025
Roads and Resolutions - February 7, 2025
In-between Tours - November 4, 2024

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Thanks for reading!