The Saturday evening quiet hum of red delicious apples
Slices through the blue air like helicopter blades.

Out there somewhere boys race cars.

Inside the house its all darker before the evening has made there dark too.

This morning the street undulations appeared well rested and clean.
They were greyish black without shimmer.
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For eternity running through grassy fields with long flowers and bees and flying meaty grasshoppers.

One lands on your leg as you stop to breath. You run on again for another ten thousand years.
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 Your dreams consist of deciphering bees dances and the memories of river eddies. You long for a fatherly male grandfather to teach and guide you. But no one is there. You look into the wisdom of birds flights for guidance, and make sense of the sadness of Spring, by the memory of the clean air of winter cold and enlivening, shivering always the night away. In the loveliest place is the sound of laughter in the park by the lake in summer,evening moon glow on sun warmed skin. Big green trees sway, a thunderstorm on the way. Tiny drops and everyone runs their cars.  Sleep and the dream of bees dancing soon underway.