A Perfect Song

“The sun afloat on red-orange horizons,
Buoyed on waves of hillocks, green.
Fingers tap on clouds and mountains,
Alight with a fiery sheen.”

“I’ll beat you down the hill, my dear!” his boyish voice did cry. And sure enough while downward bound he seemed to simply fly.

Their village rose up to meet them, an assembly of squatting squares, with chimneys venting soft gray smoke; if heads then they’d be hairs. The illusion of heads and faces was in the windows as the eyes: spectacles set on square-set jaws, as if looking to the skies.

“I don’t care if you beat me, I’m enjoying this too much. Any time with you is lovely,” she added in a hush.

She fell upon the triumphant boy, down at the foot of the rise, dragging him up, laughing: a song from her his prize.

“In our village, fenced all ‘round
By hills and trees and streams,
I’ve found myself all I could want
Plucked straight out from my dreams.”

The End

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