Pine needles
Somewhere in the middle of Oregon, in a place i have never been, the sun shines through the leaves in a familiar way. Sun splinters through a jagged hole in the canopy and heats the ground, the scent of warm pine rising. And in the time it takes to tuck blonde hair behind an ear, I am back at Clinch. A million lace wings rub together and soak the air with sound. On that old swing set with the green seats, there is pine in the air and many hours left in the day. If I dig my feet into the needles and slow my swinging to a tepid dragging, then the sun will stay high, and this moment hot and still.