A Weed on The Curb

 "No, Meredith, he's not going to...That car'll make it to the moon before she..." Light blazed across the screen.   Hate the way sunset catches these wings. Pinions still ash and heat shimmer, far enough from my back that they're just an illusion. Like the sarcasm I learned from this . He flipped the phone over to watch the sunset in the case. For a heartbeat, until glory stole even that view from his nerveless fingers, everything was light-washed, clean . He banged his fists to his knees. You could add all the sarcastic narration you liked, no angelic voice--no angel's human-seeming face--would trouble social media. Maybe they didn't need him. Didn't need his lessons. He threw his arms over the back of the old couch, kicked his feet out into the scrub . Maybe someone would figure out how to capture a video testament. Ask for help. Not for him.  Carrie brought us a group of great prompts this week but I've been really distracted lately and didn

  Sharing with The Sunday Muse #253 .  A vine sprawls over the post, leaning over the railing, pointing down the culvert. A poodle stumbles to a saunter at pressure while her boy shuffles up into a yard  to avoid a parked car, a puddle of old pollen, and the sly glances of squirrels.  The coyote feels the vine pointing and suggests the girl tear her photo, revealing she's just another vine. The poodle strains but the boy doesn't see and the squirrels don't tell. I think a summer day has become lost in the middle of spring and I'm just ready for summer's hibernation. Poets hibernate in summer, right? -- chrissa