wrapping the blanket tighter.
"No, it's not," says he, flipping a page and
pointing to the box with the 22 in it.
"I thought it started when the yellow buses started rolling,"
says the diminutive one, flipping the page back and pointing to the box with the 24.
So much like him and yet he would never admit it.
"No, " says he. He begins to draw spheres bisected with lines to explain.
Diminutive one shrugs, both an acknowledgement and dismissal
I could never understand.
"It's the first day of Fall," I say again,
thinking of days before ticking and boxes,
thinking of silence, smelling smoke and following buffalo on the move.
He shrugs, with both an acknowledgement and dismissal.
I was the only one who noticed.