Inside the lodge, our hands wrapped
around hot chocolate cups, we shared a muffin
with a resident ground squirrel running under
tables and chairs and back to us as we waited
for the famous geyser to erupt on schedule.

Overcast and cold, not a day for sightseeing,
but we had front row seats
before a giant picture-window.

We didn't know Elsie, the little lady
with years of laugh lines
etched around her mouth,
until she took the chair beside us.
 
For 90 minutes she spilled out her life in cupfuls.
Chicago-born, life-long teacher, retired
to an island in Puget Sound near her only daughter. 

I saw this thing this morning and it didn't show me much.
Hope it's better this time. She pulled her sweater close.
What did she expect? Predictable doesn't mean perfect.

I smiled, remembering pictures of the scalding
water shooting high, high against cerulean sky,
anticipating the day I would see the real thing.

Dusk fell, the rain slanted against the pane.
Straining my eyes, I spied the first short bursts
forced from the bowels of the earth.

At last I'd see the real Old Faithful in action.
Before it reached its apex, the steam dissolved,
disappeared, into the misty landscape.

The long awaited marvel lasted only minutes.
Elsie gathered up her coat and hat saying,
Still doesn't show me much.

© by Glenda C. Beall.
Used with the author's permission.