it gets late as we drive.
old unpaved roads throwing dust on us,
front seat and back.
the wheels still rolling smoothly.
i stare out the window and avoid noting the crops:
what grows
how many cows
how many crows.
when you get older you told me,
you will teach your kids to sow
raspberry and strawberry plants.
next dust storm you told me,
you will teach me how to drive,
how to shoot arrows.
there is probably
so much dust on the road
during these storms
that there forms a secret opponent
thirty feet away
and your arrow lands completely between your own eyes.
outside the dust storm
the sky bleeds red and your memory
becomes scratched with pieces of it.
running through fields.
rolling in the mud.
the air between the hay bales
is changing to coral.
rolling in the mud,
shooting arrows from the road.
for no good reason except the clean that will come.
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