Hiking in the desert mountains

he put one foot in front

of the other, stopping

every fifteen minutes

to suck on the once

ice cold filtered

water in the Camelback.

An hour and a half later

he hobbled up the stairs

to the condo, downed four

ibuprofen, put on

his swim suit and headed

for the hot tub to melt away

the aches, pains, as he rejoiced

in the day as a septuagenarian to

be out and about at all let alone

in the desert as people back home

looked out their windows

and wondered when the snow

would melt and the icy water

would run into the storm

drain to head for the river on

the way to the lake on the

way to the big lake where he

would kayak next summer.

He watched a little bit of T.V.,

headed for bed, looked forward

to the next day’s jog on the trail

next to the condo.  Friends, for

the last forty-five years, have

warned him about overdoing

it – sometimes, like when he

hikes for an hour and a half

in the mountains and

then ascends the stairs to

the condo on creaky, weak,

achy knees – those times

when for a few brief moments

that aren’t anywhere near

Camelot, he thinks, perhaps,

they are right.