Who has my six?
Who has my six?
Who has my six?
Her questions vanish in triplicate, the thin air saying nothing. All she hears are ants scurrying and her nerves, jangling, wet, and storming against her ribs, seeping past her knees, shins. She is up to her ankles in it. Alone.
Movement in the brush. Or was it? A bird parks in a hovering Sycamore. Then two, three, four more. Robins and sparrows, a bluebird or two. Then clouds, billowing, abound—cirrus, cumulus, nimbus—she thinks. They tug and toy with each other, a ballet of white and glowing cherubs. Their encompassing choreography allows space for piercing cobalt and an emergent sun. Her cerulean eyes were now wide open, expectant.
I have your six. She hears it through her feet.
As do I and I and I and I and I and I and the gravel takes that gray water from her and drinks, deep. The fallow begets a meadow.
And a field of wildflowers climbs to meet her and sweep her in.
Love, now firmly planted.