Friday, June 16, 2017

And the answer is


Rain, enough to thrill the garden, but not to silence the scent of the grass seed fields. The delicate maples, red and green. The same towhee, in the same tree, sure each sentence must end differently. Flicker with an earth-brown beak, probing, searching, finding, swallowing. Little boy with a wet new bike, testing its frame against the curb, feeling the vibration in his bones. Funny how some words end up alone. And how a sneeze heard through the rain is bound to the grass seed smell, and a stop sign nailed to a rotting post. Abandoned railroad tracks, where the iron ghosts come back, and want to know, Whooooooo are you? And the answer is, the grass seed fields, the grass seed fields, the grass seed fields.



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