We so need this rain,
says the woman with a cane and spring jacket.
She carries a cappuccino in her free hand.
Her companion agrees, yep, it’s been so dry.
They talk about the weather at length and I wonder
if anything more interesting happens in their lives.
I wander to an unused balcony where a merlin falcon
has left the remains of a dozen sparrows and a California quail.
This will have to be cleaned up before the owners visit.
I sit at a table, mug of coffee, kakuro puzzles, a good book,
break up my banana muffin into bite-sized pieces.
I listen to other people’s conversations
and then hear someone say, ask Dave, he reads a lot.
A man at a nearby table asks me a question.
Not about the weather. He asks what I think
the War of 1812 meant for Canada.
Darn, not even an easy one. I scan my memory and
tell him how the Americans tried a sneak attack on Upper Canada
by climbing the cliffs along the Niagara River near Queenston Heights
and how General Brock marched his troops to battle
from the fort at Niagara-on-the-Lake and how General Brock
was killed in battle and how there is a
monument to him at Queenston Heights
(just then the two women arrive, still talking about the weather, and take a table)
and how the battle united Canadians, British forces,
and indigenous peoples for the first time
and how we repelled the Americans and eventually
burned down their White House in 1814.
I tell him I’m a bit sketchy about the details.
I wait patiently for his response, but he says nothing.
He just tips his coffee cup my way.
