And, like maniacs, we find ourselves trying to catch it. With every thud, we suit up and shimmy into the light. Ten-year-old girls have wild imaginations.
With the calm of the noon air, Ms. Daisy came out of her back door, searching for tidbits of sky to trap for next Winter.
“You girls be careful. There’s buzzards on the prowl. Dead cow somewhere ‘round here. They’ll be needin' a taste.
Buzzards? Ain’t no buzzards around here. Ms. Daisy’s on that stuff.
“You know what she’s talking about?”
“Wanna go see if there’s really buzzards over there?”
We put every piece of sky in a bucket near the side of Ms. Daisy’s house and went to search for things little girls in the country search for.
Mama’s in the kitchen/kissin' what she’s missin’. Daddy’s 'round the corner/doin' what he’s gonna. Ain’t nobody gonna love 'em. Nope, ain’t nobody gonna love 'em.
We head over to the clearing, pond speaking in tongues. There, they all stood. A heap of them. Too many to count.
“Lacy, you see this?!?!”
“What are we gonna do? There’s gotta be hundreds of them here. There’s more than a dead cow out here.”
“Maybe they caught some sky too.”
“Sky didn’t do this, Lacy. This is something else. Let’s leave 'fore they see us.”
We cut across the clearing, holding hands, and racing against the afternoon wind. Our hair streaking, bursting from their bows.
Ten-year-old girls have wild imaginations.