sara@mhuxj.UUCP (TRIGS) (12/28/85)
Boy and baseball, butterfly and blue sky contrive together to knit their summer day, laughter racing over the sloping lawn, baseball looping into the blue, row on row, hour upon hour. Somewhere in the distance a flute is being played. Its soft notes weave, ghostly, a melody among the trees. Overhead, planes are being tossed somewhere important-- places like Chicago and L.A. again and again. No one watches; or perhaps only some adult waiting to tell us we can't play, curious, as when we watch the butterfly bright orange with purple specks, beautiful and helpless, buffeted by whatever wind is near. by Jeffery Alan Triggs