The sky’s pastel pink and blue as the sun rises over the Sangre de Cristos.
For long moments of time, I’m calm, sitting on a tattered house rug thrown on the sand, remembering into the distance....
the aged odor of the nursing home as I would walk through to that room....
the stab of a glass shard in my foot, the sharp slide out....
how, as a child, I would always dig large holes in the woods behind our house, and lie in them....
At night, I watch the red car lights along the distant mountain ridge like slow-linear UFO’s,
and try to decipher coyotes hunting in the thick darkness.
For long moments of time, I’m calm, sitting on a tattered house rug thrown on the sand, remembering into the distance....
the aged odor of the nursing home as I would walk through to that room....
the stab of a glass shard in my foot, the sharp slide out....
how, as a child, I would always dig large holes in the woods behind our house, and lie in them....
At night, I watch the red car lights along the distant mountain ridge like slow-linear UFO’s,
and try to decipher coyotes hunting in the thick darkness.
2 comments:
Brian, the image of the narrator digging holes to lie in them is going to stick with me for a long time.
Julie, I hope that's a good thing. ;)Thank you for the comment!
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