Tuesday, July 1, 2014


Walking in the grass,
a few minutes after twilight,
a crescent moon glows in the sky
just above the top of the pines. 

A pint of beer, three quarters full,
in one hand,
pajama clad boy beside me,
bare feet. 
"I saw one. I think I heard a coyote!"

"We saw some on my way home. 
I mean I did. Me, myself and I."
"What about Wonder Woman?"
"I haven't talked to her since I was a kid.
They're back there. Let's go."
"Here they are! There are more of them."
"I am getting mosquito bites."
"The bat, oooh, little bat!"
"Batman, da na na na na na na na!"

At the top of the steps,
the moon's in a different spot.
"I can see it's mouth."

Something big is flying around
the flowers,
and it's not a bat. 
The dog is fearlessly chasing it.
All the creatures disappear 
from the water's approach. 
The sound of the water running
through the hose,
and then the squeak
of the spigot. 

Inside again,
reading two pages,
and off to bed with them.
And silence. 
Delicious silence,
as he reads,
and I write,
for him,
and for me,
and we can hear
air gently flowing through a vent,
and a canine sighing. 

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