Spring 2021 A Private Reveille The cook slips from the kitchen in the pre-dawn grey, wipes his hands along his apron, crosses the gravel drive. Like a soldier, he pivots, snapping to attention—unaware of me on the balcony above— my morning meditation interrupted. Still and straight as a fence stake, he faces the Truchas Peaks. His chest rises and falls once before the sun spills over the New Mexican range, lights his face and hair. With a nod, he turns crisply, crunches back across the stones, disappears into the kitchen where he will crack eggs and chop potatoes for a lodge full of strangers. (First Published in A Brief History of Two Aprons, chapbook, 2016, Finishing Line Press.)
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