emory and i in the circle of oaks
(fondly called the faerie ring)
perched in the sloping curves the trunks make where they meet earth
we talk a little
but we also just watch
while jack trots around
his neon orange collar jingling
as he sniffs in the distance

this is the worst idea i’ve had yet emory declares with excitement
about biking up the gravel with the deadliest looking black locust thorn clump
tucked in his handlebars
(how he could impale himself, in a non-life-threatening way, if he crashed on his bike)
and i’ve had some pretty bad ideas he finishes his sentence
pedaling wildly ahead
one of the many ditto’d sentiments
spoken in the past handful of days