Steer clear of the rocks, they have a knack for getting pulled over.
Something beyond the edge prevents us from establishing a foothold in the
area. For now, the money has to be imagined. Self-appointed officials note
the absence of skid marks at the scene. Fuck 'em if they can't take a joke.
The kite leaves the nest, tailgating clouds. Pretend not to notice. Time to
dig out the snow tires from beneath the floats. Over the hill, the gray cloud
turns black. Maybe (maybe not) a sign to turn back. Navigating the
jaws-of-life takes plenty of guesswork, as does hanging on to the string. To
go out and get a real job. Three choices, unstated yet well-known, one
involving a John Deere (to plow through the bullshit). The check has been
cleared, but not the land. Friends and neighbors don't know where to turn,
the village our only common ground. No body of water in close proximity. As
long as we don't look down we're okay. During the meeting it seems
appropriate to wax nostalgic, easing into the gentle cycle, to embrace or
ignore a dream that's been gathering lint in the freebie bin. Darkness forces
the bulbs, loyal to the end, but they grow up too fast. Many now are in
school. They, too, set their sights. Someday they may return, but only if
they have something to offer, and only if a stipend or a key is awarded.
Afterward, we walk home undecided, should we stay or go? Once through the
door, we wash up and try to forget the whole thing.