feeling the fingers brush across my back as my mind wondered with each
cloud that marched ritually across the sky.
Each cloud looked like a face, looking down on the soul drowning in the sea of grass.
I use to ponder climbing the tress, hoping to give my voice leverage so these faces could
answer the many questions I had.
Was it grandpa's face in the sky, waiting for me to pick up that bat in the basement,
so I could entertain all his new friends with my lack of skill? Or was it Uncle Earl,
asking me to pick numbers for the new lottery games he gets to play?
Maybe the birds could tell me as they soar high enough to hear these voices, but they
would never tell me a thing, so I close my eyes and try to interpret the sounds of the wind
pushing across my face.