Under noon’s gaze, eyes narrow search for the prize wether, ensnared by rope and legs bound by azure threads. Perched on the truck bed, among eager, greasy grandkids, united by a craving for mutton. Drift amid shifting sands and whispering winds, where planes pirouette in harmony. Laughter before reckoning as reflected lights blind from rearview mirrors. In that split second when eyelids flinch shut, the wether shatters his twine restraints. Children rush in, their eager hands grasp its joints before he can flee. They weave the blue hay twine, tighter and firm, with a double square knot’s embrace—the white truck’s ten-ply tires glide over the sand, as glittering quartz grains dance aside. …
Jalen Skye Smallcanyon
i. …