Warm September wind, sunshine,

manure drying itself in round piles

you can kick, and dissolve into dust.

The sweet smell of it, the same

as it smelled thirty-three years ago,

at Harold Johnson’s place.

I breathe in memories like air,

close my eyes and see them all

alive again, laughing, telling jokes

about how they want to come back,

when they die, as a young girl’s horse.

Everything is the same.

Everything is completely different.

Yet, more and more, I’m somewhere

between this soft day,

and memories of this soft day

some place else.