way up in the sky

On my hip, her legs hang down to my knees. Her nose runs in the cold, cheeks surprised and red.

I point out the moon, hanging halfway to the horizon, an odd spot in the morning sky. She looks at me.  

Touch she says. It's a question. I laugh and start to tell her that its far away

but then.

Stop.  

Try I say. We both reach out. It's warmer than I expected.

We walk home and her chin lifts high, exposing her warm neck to the whole wide world.

Sky. Move move move move she says. The wind shoves the clouds forward and the hair away from her face.

I don't need to look up to see what she sees.

Yes the sky is moving.

It's magic to me, too. 

stories

The path I run is a circle. Like always around the same question -- where are the words?

I walk up the hill. And at the end take off my shoes and socks and sit on this cool concrete.

Still outside. All of me.

First: closed eyes, crossed legs, thinking about only the breath. Morning sun filters through the backyard oaks, shifting sun and shadows over my closed lids. More breath.

Then: feels like faces, inches from my own, moving closer then away. Games of sun and shade. But I imagine lips moving, hands reaching. I'm still. Open. But I can only hear that traffic and these leaves.  I can only feel this breeze drying all that sweat.

There are stories right in front of me. I want to know them so I can taste them. So I can tell them.  But my eyes are closed and I can't see them.

Hi, Mama. I turn my head and see her face pressed against the screen door. My lips -- my eyes and ears, even -- lift and shift into a smile.

So finally, this is it: the only story I know right now is my own.

Hi, Baby. I go inside.