They gather in pairs to laugh at rain, their roots long since drowned in stone. Last night I dreamt of my grandmother's garden. A stifling sun on weedy carrots, I kept hoping she'd call me in. First generation Norwegian, she loved jello, sanka, and grilled cheese. Today she would have been ninety-one.
Days stretch open at both ends, breaking into sleep.
Out my back door I step into forest, and climb through branches head first. I try not to ask for more knowing no one ever really thought the world was flat, just something they couldn't hold in their hands, Killdeer crying, their echoes tagging behind. At sixteen I thought the world was a table with empty chairs, a window opening to pine. Daffodil and muskeg. You and me.