Grandsons alongside, Grandfather trundles
his pickup across the
dusty field and stops
just short of that
creek bed, dried and
widened to a beach.
He pulls up a
strand of buried barbed
wire as the boys
inspect fallen fence posts.
The younger finds one
suitable for whacking. With
a hard tree limb,
he begins. Soon his
brother joins in. Whacking,
shouting, whacking. Until, surrounding
those two, a ghost
comes into focus — yellowjacket
swarm.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
Those children hop. Hop
down the back steps.
Hop around the yard.
Which is enclosed; but,
nonetheless. Neighbors across the
way sip martinis, relish
that spectacle, particularly when
the children hop off
their siblings’ backs. “I’ll
bet they learned that
from goats.” “Or from
their parents.” “They don’t
hop.” “But they both
teach.” “Think those kids’ll
ever walk upright?” “Hope
not.” Gin. Chortles.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
Skipping to school. Skipping
school. Skipping stones across
water. Skipping stones altogether.
One can skip a
stone along dry, packed
earth, as does this
child. The stone skips
until it glances off
a small root, rises,
and smacks that other
truant’s forehead. The dented
little skull gushes blood
as she thumps to
ground. Two children on
opposite sides of that
path, with one moment
frozen between them, a
moment that can’t be
skipped over. Get up,
Annie. Maybe let’s go
back to school. Just
get up, now. Those
words skip, scatter over
the forest floor.