Aug 21, 2010
late August. I ride my bike through the village. the little French village on the edge of the heart. the heart of this generous continent.
the smoke, BC’s forest fires, exhalation, the choked lungs of too much summer heat, lightening storm, the lit grass, the forest crackle. burn burn. the smoke screen. like a thousand thousand smoke grenades. is gone. now only that blue. no, not only. only will not do. it is the prairie
sky. blue as beloveds’ eyes.
how lovely. the hot wind. how lovely my bones, my body warmed young. on a bicycle. through the white grasses. the still green hills soft as breasts. the wide prairie, the belly. the river valley that place of beginning.
when I die, could it be sweetly in this valley, just to begin again. here?
the black horse has moved on. the irrigation ditch has drained into puddle. gone the bright green water my child and I dangled our July feet into. the flood gates are open.
the black horse has moved on. unlike its brother at the Arghandab. tethered forever in soldiers’ memories. the wadis slimed green. the child floating floating. facedown. some horrible dream soldier will carry to his grave.
her tiny dress waving waving. embroidered. mirrored. little celebration.