On white walls washed primrose, candy wrapper leaves crinkle behind the dancing, cloying shadow sweets left by a breeze too quiet to remember.
Look past the prairie, now smoldering cornfield wastes of salted soil sewn from our own brows; the only prerequisite is wide-eyed naïvety to catch a glimpse of the shaky-handed painter's brushstroke of trees on a river aptly named "Skunk."
In the space between closer to and closer than home, cicada songs join an aspen's fluttering percussion to usher in the twilight and whisper good-night while flipping the switch on a childish soapbox.
On white walls washed indigo, the final murmur of a hair-raising breeze ties and pulls the puppeteer's strings on spindly trees in a dance too dark to remember.