The baby kicks his heals in our bed, signaling that he is now awake.
He sits up, looks my way. Smiles and then hides his face back in the
bed clothes. He still looks for the delight in each day. It is all here
for him to hold within his tiny grasp, like doves on chocolate.
I didn't pause to see the sun filtering through low-hanging clouds
or quiet canoes on the still-quiet lake, early morning July. I didn't
even hear the earliest cicadas still small and tender, not yet making
the scary noise, announcing the imminence of the coming school year.
A child in a bright yellow sweatshirt passes below my window
on his way to the school bus with no air conditioning--just open
windows on top creating what air flow is available to those
requiring extra instruction. Perhaps english is his second language.
The baby, still on the bed, looks at one of his books alone. His
hearing aids are still out and he views the pictures with great
interest. The same school district with the un-airconditioned bus
already has his name. His development will be watched closely,
by many. We live in a village. We buy our fish at the market.
We strive for self-sufficiency. We are dependent on the world
for our needs but we rise in our beds, alone. We speak to others
on narrow flashes of strings, invisible in the air, yearning for more.