01 April 2006


The Sort of Thing Claypot Dreamstance Says While He's Going Through His Important Papers in Search of His Birth Certificate

Every spring we rolled marbles over melting ice, the sun turning the frozen ground to pudding. We couldn’t wait to start playing baseball so we skidded around on slick grass, scoring runs with mud-caked shoes. Snowbanks shrank slowly, many lingering through April to May. The drip of liberated moisture was a clock’s ticks marking the season’s passage. Sometimes a late snow covered everything with an inch or so of white fluff that disappeared by mid afternoon. The smell of the drying grass on those days made you think of animals coming out of the cave to break their hibernation fast.


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