Sue Moon’s Blog

The mist hangs suspended, too frail to fall.  Eerie light shifts above the aluminum sky.

Our cheeks break through the filmy barrier on our brisk walk down the lane.

Granddaughters tumble around us until a stand of sumac up the hill calls Hannah’s name.
She leads the brigade.
Scattering up the hill like discharged buckshot, the girls wade through a yellow river of foxtails that swallows yellow headed Nora, but then the white fleece of her jacket rises like a silver moon out of the amber flow.
Sun stalks for an opening in this jealous sky looking for a spot to anoint the five bobbing heads. Faces shimmer with the beads of mist. Heads shine with a golden orange aura.
And I remember a time when I—newly here, not yet weaned from heaven—played in the lap of the earth.
The russet thicket of sumac becomes their fort. Two are Indians, three are Pilgrims. There are seeds and weeds to collect for a Thanksgiving dinner. They scurry, rising and falling on the terraced field.
“Let’s say this is the kitchen.”
“Let’s say this is our food.”
-from “Right Here on the Ground” by Jean Miller