Stars, Trainwhistles, Weeds
The feel as a boy is that of floating with stars, lark buntings, prairie dogs, and pikas traveling the same road a long while just to meet us. Skies then were veined and birdwinged as right now, while rainbow fish flew without moving over the beadwork in creekbeds. Yet even back then I must have halfway overheard the distant trainwhistles shipping carloads of thumbs and big toes to the bottom of Egypt. Oh, it takes a long time to arrive, longer far to inherit the territory. Anciently intricate weeds brush against us, ever since childhood and still we can’t name them.
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Stars, Trainwhistles, Weeds