Tarpaper bands show sheathing widely spaced, and in patches where it must have leaked. Lead pipes bang and fizz pop. Sound sends beer around cold while outside cocks crow, loose tin clatters, and horns rattle from the gables. I smoke deep through dreams of pursuing doctors in coats sterile white onto paths of flowered meadows with butterflies amber in movement. I hear the hum of bees in blackberry blossoms on green thorned long stems.
Wild strawberries intervine the road.
Blue skies and white clouds cool, and the final repeat of the crickets works temperature through formula, like lightning considered counted per second so many hundred feet. Printed in the proper black against white, keep the final receipt, something of a trophy dream cast in plaster and bronzed like baby shoes, and memory of such days never escapes mention if its dawn and the aubade. Cypress surround stagnant ponds. Scum scours the sky reflected, and the moon, once silver, now grays. I know it different than I suspected.