Some days I do not trust the sun in its cherry glory and wanton transgressions. When I was a boy I walked the creek collecting crayfish in a yellow bucket, too heavy for its plastic handle in the velvet flesh of my wet palm. Sauntering away the summer in what felt like miles before I knew what miles meant.

Once we caught two carp in the bucket. Carried home in a hundred shifting pounds and the sound of miniature thunder slapping the insides in twilight. Mom said to take them back and they swam like two freedoms spawned in the shallow water.

The days lasted, and the sun lingered low into the night like a stoic pendant. Long enough to make it home when home was the Braxton back door and dinner at dusk.

Today I’m sitting in the car too often pledging seasonal wishes that the lidless eye dip-dive in time with my moods. The pact is a loose rope, letting out too soon on my grip, a bright ball hanging too high for longer than I would approve.