gently


Here, the grass grows thicker and somehow softer than anywhere else. The pale green stems, tugged away from the earth, would be wide enough to fold into tiny paper (grass?) airplanes, if you knew how to do it right.

The sky is crossed with a single power line, three small birds clinging to the wire, a fourth spiraling low and wide between the trees. Hungry bats dart above the feathered showman, snatching mosquitoes out of the air with quiet precision.

At the end of the driveway, a king snake crosses the road.

The hill slants so gently that you almost forget it’s a hill, until you stand at the far edge of the pond and notice the gently rising incline that leads to a little brick house with white pillars on the front porch.

There are jars in the kitchen window, and at the far end of the house, a door swings open—a warm yellow line in the dark.


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