on any hill without a cross, they pause, and the father points.
when they are tired, father and son, they plunk into then off the sides of valley homes.
one home in particular remembers thinking kids these days roll anything looks like a tire.
your own father smacks whichever finger lifts without the rest. says you sleeping donβt mean your epilepsy knows.
in your dreams the father does not point, and there isnβt a son. just a man on one hill after the other, sunlight purling into the seeable dark yarn sea. his eyes leaving his head,