Nose pressed up against the glass of summer’s edge…in love with ghosts from the past. The wagon wheels are heading west, the blue moon ice cream melts as I scrape my bare feet against the roughened edge of the car rug; gritty toes and sticky fingers and smudged windows; snarled hair blowing wildly in the wind.
The sweeping wheat winds of these glorious prairie lands…stretching out…burnt brown; drought’s threat edged with the vibrant periwinkle blue of the flax fields and the cold smell of waters flowing deeply, undiscovered below the rumbling bison.
I am ten years old again…feeling the cement of the tired school building leaving the soles of my feet as each step carries me closer to the slamming door…
690 Saint Paul 