Going to Carolina

A warm Spring day. Not a cloud in the sky. James Taylor sings in my mind I'm going to Carolina. I think about another Spring day like this long ago. And a poem by Ray Carver too.

Thermopylae

Back at the hotel, watching her loosen, then comb out
her russet hair in front of the window, she deep in private thought,
her eyes somewhere else, I am reminded for some reason of those
Lacedaemonians Herodotus wrote about, whose duty
it was to hold the Gates against the Persian army. And who
did. For four days. First, though, under the disbelieving
eyes of Xwrxes himself, the Greek soldiers sprawled as if
uncaring, outside their timber-hewn wall, arms stacked,
combing and combing their long hair, as if it were
simply another day in an otherwise unremarkable campaign.
When Xerxes demanded to know what such display signified,
he was told, When these men are about to leave their lives
they first make their heads beautiful.
She lays down her bone-handle comb and moves closer
to the window and the mean afternoon light. Something, some
creaking movement from below, has caught her
attention. A look, and it lets her go.