I hadn’t seen the stars in untold time.
My screen painted in peanut butter. I can’t tell. Is that in focus?
“That’s pokey, mama. Don’t touch it. You’ll get hurt.”
Ah, no, bug. It only looks pokey. Touch it. It’s ok.
“That’s a weed, mama?”
No, honey. That’s corn.
“That’s not corn, mama. That’s grass.”
“I planted beads, mama! Patios and I planted lots of beads for you for them to grow.”
“Those aren’t my ‘matoes, mama. My ‘ ‘matoes are at school.”
…
“I want to take pictures, mama.”
As is each day.
Today, the Cows of the Morning Commute were out. Rubbing, pressing, pushing against the post. The post of the sign to sell their land. The post offering opportunity. The post offering loss.
The sun is crisp, the air is light, the life in the leaves sparkles.
The flooding fields by the single duck’s pond shimmer in the dew. There’s a man by a goal post. He’s… He’s… What is he…
He’s playing the trombone. In the light, crisp, sparkling air, hundreds of feet under where the highways meet, a man is playing a trombone.
I long to hear his tune.
plumdirt 