A space inside what one hears. As sweeping allows an inflection of distance, painfully so. Also nights in summer when riblike cirrus clouds glowed in the moonlight. We laughed, we cried, we told stories. Here paraphrased: not the inclination to make tools but to create belief systems to help modulate the natural world. Three horses charged me where the field sloped gently and I never forgot it.
Their feet were like bells, the color of anvils. In the forest, lost, we came upon the ruins of a tractor. The ticks scurried up our legs as if in search of refuge. Pitter patter of conversation, pine catkins. I tied my father's shoes and we both wept then went walking. Wait - I dreamed of a rainbow from which I backed away.
A wall of water. A commitment to being honest, less confused, though not in that order. The turnip-colored heart, the vaginal folds of roses, and June. Salad greens tossed with apple slices and olive ol. We ate quietly, including crackers for dessert. The story takes place in segments and at the end of each you ask: but when will they find the treasure?
A balloon visible in the distance yet blurred by tears. Long before I knew it, I was home.
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