walking wheat field

The year is turning in on itself now.

There is not enough water.

Everywhere you walked on the lawn turned brown. The next day.

And later, we were drinking. I forgot about finding you, I’ll just tell you that, I didn’t look. They found you in the tree. I was falling asleep.

Once a year the sky stays orange all day to the North, with flecks of blue. I let my hair down, I drag it through the leaves. We kill a goat. We climb the trees and bring down the children. We lay them like wet leaves on the grass. Their discovery is accidental and happens while we try to see the stars.

I didn’t want to open my mouth in front of your mother, I thought she would take my voice.

The place where I left you is rapidly fading.

Maybe they found you in the river. There could have been flowers in your hair. We were supposed to meet back here. Now I don’t think I’ll ever find you again but I still hear your voice, sometimes. Across the black water. Sometimes I hear the splash.

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