Man carries his son. Both carry hats: russet leather cowboy, scarlet cotton Spiderman. Spitting Horse carries them all, casting settled dust into wind. Sun sneaks up on the backs of their necks. No surprise. Empty Road dances up and down, turning with the horizon. No-Hat Woman lifts soft, beckoning arms to her son, receives him from the man. Son clutches tightly to the shoulders within reach. All lift one hand: adiós papá, mi hijo, mi amor . Field of Glowing Wheat waves back.

The parliament of warblers is punishing me again and so I am pretending to sleep to punish them back.

But what of after-spring who delights in neither newness nor its crisp descent? Honey, suckled every last drop a tight-throated memory of two gaunt hummingbirds. Dry season again this year: no water, no fruit. Broad green leaves shield sugary jam jars striated with chartreuse at birth, Melting into shades of pale mauve, a dust-covered field of mulberry, boysenberry, currant, ripening to indigo. The flower blossoms within, pollinated by fig wasp which offers its dissolved, lov

Y Who knew we’d forget the sound of a schoolbell ring before the day was even done. G And my elementary school classmates stopped yelling No pictures! at parents and strangers I I woke up today and learned I’m no longer the leading expert on my mother’s smile D Like a sapling redwood mocked by the stars, I grow an inch and feel two smaller. O A spilled year asks the next, “Are we all grown up yet?” like an onion in a field of daisies R Collected seasons like a too-smal