You sit on half a log piled along stacked wooden planks twice his height, and stare into a grass-green field, this early in the morning. The air is cool and heavy, and you can feel it in between your fingers, and so you did, palming the grass with your hands like the hairs on top of a head.

The silence is serene, and you don’t hear the early buses roll out in the parking lot, or the steady flow of cars and carpools pouring two, or four feet, into the pavement with small, heavy wheels rolling behind them.

There is nothing but silence, the blue sky, and the sun at the corner of its azure canvas- yet also the barking of a dog.

The gold dog, you’ll think about him seven years later, if he’s still alive.

Or if he still wears that scarf the help made him wear, which made him a nicer dog. You’ll think about mornings like these seven years later.

From behind where the big digger trucks are parked, four boys move a blue steel pushcart, two from behind, and two talking at the side. The cart didn’t look like it was heavy from the way it was pushed, but it made a percussive jingling noise of screws and hollow skins and flat metal sheets. From afar they could be carrying scrap metal, and three big black boxes- rolling around like an aluminum stag on the gray concrete road against a blue-and-yellow wall.

From the log that you sit you rememeber the day those four boys sat there too, feeling like almost jumping off a cliff. Things were simpler then.

No bills, no debts, no goals, no responsibilities.


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