Sketches for the Boys
They used to race each other because that's what kids do. First two, then two more. When the winner had won, the little one got his turn. Give him a chance, get him to speed. And then. They used to race each other to see the little one fall down.
There were no horses anymore and it felt like there never had been. We each staked our claim, decided who lived where, then we fought. We found refuge in those stalls, but horses there were none.
He dropped a board on the damn thing's neck, though he was tryin to save her. That poor hen finally pulled back, then dropped down and to the right. She was crushed. So was he. The other two of us, though, we laughed like hell at it. And I still do.
Ours was styrofoam and couldn't make it a few feet with three of us on. Just dock here. I remember the tree trunk and we lookin inside it. Then somebody said he heard a wildcat, and we left everything there and ran back to the creek.
We sat on buckets and watched the water. Life existed, but time did not. I got a bite, and she pulled it out: a sun perch, she said, and she smiled. It was always a sun perch, and she always smiled. I watched the two of them, its shiny, dying body and her tired, fighting hands. She showed it to me one more time, and then she threw it back in.
They woke up on the trampoline at dawn, confused and cold, but fine. Handprints in dew. New sun on their necks. They shook the mud from their clothes and hair. They went inside and ate because they had to. Then they went back out, and they did it all again.
