Not time yet.

Oh, no. Uncured bacon.

Gate still closed. We’re going to be late. I sip cold coffee and am grateful for the little stretch of road that is empty.

Could be worse.

The way the colors are so saturated after the rains. Everything feels like it’s pulsing with life. Lush.

Eight years ago. Look at us now.

Nothing but tail lights.

Each song a memory of middle school and high school. Long bus trips to and from places and these songs being the only ones the coach approved of.

The way the light is filtering through the persimmon tree.

She wants to race me. We do. I win. Still got it.

“Prepare to be stomped like a late harvest Gewurtztraminer.”