Down by the towpath along the creek, walking against the insect noise and twists of roots from trees that no longer exist, past the rustling thistles of last summer’s dry shadows once indefinably green against the brittle sky . . . there once was a tall wooden fence as white and straight and even as milk teeth, and I always peeked through the knotholes just to see the other side.
in the wake of long grass
deep purple, bell-shaped flowers
the morning sun floats