Tag-a-longs and Hairy Moons.

Tongue tingling with paprika, maple sugar and black truffle salt.
Sticker covered wagon cutting through the heat
Carrying two skirted girls, crazy and confident.
Salty cool breezes far behind, they crawl up, up and up the winding road.
Under the gnarled oak trees and into the still silence.
Breeze crinkling the crunchy brown leaves.
Flys buzzing lazily in and out of earshot.
Red shining flesh beneath the flaking calloused skin between my thumb and forefinger.

A flash of memory.
Walking down Wealthy in East Town. Past Rafav's swirled window, Yesterdog and the ever changing restaurant across the street.

Edmund and Lucy begin their adventures while dozing in and out of sleep.
Flipped pages, escaping the thumb, falling with a soft thud.
The ends of my hair like small bugs on my skin.
The low hum of a plane and call of a bird far, far away.
Further still is the wind picking up speed in the valley, rattling the crusty branches.
Heavy eye lids, burning and dry like the leaves under my moleskin.
Left hand growing heavy as my cheek deprives the appendage of blood.
Fluttering wings in and out of sunlit madrone spaces, orange and green.
The distant wind rushing again.
I want to sleep a second time.
I want to keep writing.
The falling sun illuminating the heads of grass like little hairy moons.
Grey tag-a-longs cling to my black skirt.