In this sweet curve of time we fly south, over the up-lifted earth of the Sierra Nevadas, gray-green forests brown where fire touched the stretching earth, catchments of smooth blue water, patches of snow cast like manna on the peaks.
In the plane, I see the small curl of a baby’s ear, the slight redness in the fold of fat at the neck as a young mother pats and rubs the back of the crying child across her knee. Clouds form from the gauzy light.
Later, holding the stranger’s baby asleep, I remember the tough brown crust of bread hot from the mud brick oven in the Kalahari Desert, my own son cradled in my arms, far, far away.
FEWalls
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