This summer I am lucky to be teaching math in a rustic environment. Being in such a bucolic place makes even math teachers think we can write poetry.

Mornings in Wolfeboro

First the birds start their morning tweets,
Then the sky lightens. It is 4:30.

At 5:00, the cooks arrive to make our breakfast,
One on a Harley.

A lone runner plods along the dirt road,
His shuffling steps creating a Doppler effect.
It is 5:15.

I get up and let the dogs out and feed them
And we all get back in bed until 6,
Snuggled under the covers,
Just a few pine boards from the outside world.

No loons called to one another,
Lonely voices cutting the cool air.
Maybe tomorrow morning.