City folk wanted to be country folk on small acreage for a high price,
no longer so close to circumstantial good neighbors.
A retirement town with the heart of sandwich shops, wineries,
safe school syllabi. The open range land deal closed in November,

motivating an elder to be sick of her family’s turkey day apathy.
She needed nature. Obsessively inconveniencing offspring
looking like a smiling stranger in alley shadows, she planned ill
with a family outing no one wanted to face.

“The land should be celebrated. Blessings need thanks.”
Then she appealed to the insanity of family: “This could be my last.”
None of the generations she mothered and grandmothered pitied.
“You like the outdoors. That character you like is always outside,”

she said to her grandson who always had a book in hand.
“Another Thanksgiving, but on new land, outside on a blanket,
on even ground, just like Nick Adams? Why can’t we be like
the character’s author and eat shotgun pellet stuffing.
That would be a blessing.”