by Margaret McGowan

In the hills
the women live
past one hundred,
the rocks on the path
gather gray moss,
the grass bends
in the lazy wind.
The ocean hedges
them, three men
over ninety sit
on a white wooden porch,
their faces clean-shaven,
their banter speckled with
titters. They wait for their
wives who are cooking
breakfast. Light radiates
from these children of the sky.
Their demise seems
somewhere out past
the horizon, as they fraternize
with friends and members
of the clan, toast life,
tend to their goats, laugh.

Image by Matthias Cooper via Pexels