yellow sky
I watched the Patriots game in the back room of a local bar, and afterwards I walked home.
I’ve spent the winter inside. I sleep late, waiting for the sun to rise, and then I work late, and by the time the cycle’s done, it’s dark again, and there’s nothing to do but stare into one screen or another. Sometimes I leave something in my truck; I go out late to get it, and I accidentally look up, and then remember the stars are there. But it’s cold at night here, so I don’t look long.
I’ve forgotten what it feels like to walk outside, alone. The world looms over you, passing slow; no world this way looks normal or expected, and there is joy in that. The cypress trees, tall and leafless in the bayou, the slowly slumping shacks on Main Street: this is and is not home. A hundred black birds rose up then over the street. They signaled their arrival with an enormous collective cry, and then disappeared east over the curve of the earth. Off behind the graveyard a boy practiced batting; I could hear the irregular clang of metal and leather. It was warm, finally, and the sky was yellow and the winds gathered patiently.
Almost home, I watched a girl on her scooter make elliptical loops. She was tiny against the giant sky, nothing compared to a hundred black birds. But this world was hers, maybe the only world she’s known, and the one she’ll always remember when she thinks back to innocence and scooters.
Hours later, after dark, the storm finally came. The winds tore at the house and hail battered the windows. It felt like a big one, like a tornado might come and lift us all away. Jess got up and looked at the window, and I guess she didn’t see houses and cows being sucked off into the heavens, because she came back to bed.
