where the writers are
Nothing is moving today

Nothing is moving today.

Neither the trees nor the grass

Not the top parts of the ocean

Nor the blacks birds over the path.

Nothing is moving and so we are still.

 

The heat falls onto us mid morning and children lose interest . Remember the sounds of summer: airplanes and barking dogs The Good Humor man’s truck, An echoing television from an open window. The hiss hiss of the sprinkler whipping around its three pronged heads.

I remember the damp, soft grass, a white eyelet nightgown, finding treasures in my Grandmother’s drawers while she napped. I stole a thimble but it didn’t help me.

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