Powderhorn in August


On our cozy porch, sipping port given to me by a dear friend, listening to the crickets while the youngest hunts for tiny toads in the drizzly gloaming and the eldest hunches upstairs over his Magic cards: sorting, categorizing. It is past their bedtime, but summer’s end is too close at hand for us to insist on anything. Bicyclists ride slowly past in the darkening street, tires hissing in the shallow puddles.

Published by haddayr

Writer, parent, cripple, queer; worker, dancer. City dweller. Bicyclist. I love whiskey, tea, and cussing.