Christmas

Crinkle crackle crack. Dry grass bends and sways in our wake. Swish stomp snap. Winter coats and boots through fields. An old dirt road, Grandpa, sister, cousin on the farm. Past empty soybean lots and dry creek beds.

A bucket of moon, of starlight, of cloud. Water and powder, shake with a spoon. Paris and pastries and filling tracks.

It’s a secret dream, a wish of beavers and fishing and winter skies and antlers. Sadie found one once. The wish flows to my feet and guides me through bushes and weeds, trampling on game trails to find my prize.

Hotdogs on a fire on the road. Cardboard around plaster, drying in the Kansas weather. Lifting tracks with gentle hands. We run home, towards hot tea and Grandma, toward warm couches and Crocodile Hunter and comfort and never going home.