From the back yard and in the back door. Through the kitchen, the dining room, the living room, and the hall. Out the front screen door and onto the porch. Deep breath, hands in your back pockets, finished business, but nothing is ever really finished, you forgot something (or maybe you meant to), and you lean back toward the door to say goodbye.
Down the steps and across the lawn, the street, the lawns across the street. By neighborhood houses (this is like a Family Circus Sunday comic), streets and streets. To the edge of town, near the high school, and past it.
From a distance, and this is late afternoon early fall, you can hear the marching band practicing under the lights of the football field. It sounds like they’re playing an old rock song.
...we’ve nowhere to be...
You look over your left shoulder, and wait for a car to pass slowly on the gravel road. And you keep walking. Into the fields, into the land.
No comments:
Post a Comment