Pink Moon

On the weathermap, symbols for storms. Squall birds gather hairs, grass strands,
and last year’s straws to the eaves. For new nests. In our little state, surrounded,
we stall. Calm and centered, like an island, rocking.
Here, if we were not aware, snow still swirls just above us, and in the east of our
ancestors. The elegant girl slides quietly from her bed in the dawn, barefoot on the
tile.
Today is a full moon. It is called Pink Moon Day. Warmth and cheer hover longer.
Wild onion wands wiggle in the wind, high above the tiny new violets, enticingly
edible.
Half a block away, children at recess shriek. From here, it sounds like happiness.
Out on the black tarmac, one little person stands alone, fingering a stash of sticky
raisins, in their waxpaper packet. How the handwarmed wax invisibly melts, softening
the once crisp paper into tissue. She is deciding which one to pick next, still slowly
chewing the previous. A whirlwind of screaming all around her. Agitated bird colonies,
stirring each other up at sunrise. Soon the loud bell clangs, and the welltrained children
form double lines, boys versus girls, shortest ones first.