Outside the tire shop waiting room
a sparrow underneath a faded Suburu
sips from a puddle of condensation
dripped from the air conditioner.
Smoke from the fires is everywhere.

“Have a seat,” the young woman
behind the counter takes care of business.
“I’ll get’em right on it.”

The dude next to me into his phone
scrolls through pics with an expert thumb
an older lady across from me
fidgeting with the clasp on her purse
looks at me, her face full of apology.
I smile, and look away.

The tire shop is full of the smell of new tires.
We have Coffee Mate and hunting magazines
as we wait, and are grateful to have made it
and not to be stuck on the side of the road.
I look out the window again.

The sparrow stays in the shade
under the bumper, her beak open for the heat
as if she’s trying to sing.