donned the yellow shoes. and the dreamy cashmere sweater of yore. tied my hair into a ponytail and went out walking. it was cool out. the swish of my skirt and the swing of my hair. an on-my-way-to-a-sock-hop feeling. or what i imagine that feeling to be. never having attended a real one* i wouldn't actually know.
a family of five raccoons was cavorting in the middle of the wee bridge. i went unnoticed at first. their awkward outlines humping along against a backdrop of amber light. bunting of hops and bramble trims the railings. once the washbears saw me they were swift into the thickness of it. chattering away. crashing branches. making noises that might fool the unknowing into believing some large beast was down there in the negative space beneath the span. making noises that belie the larger creatures crouched inside the unassuming ones. masks.
in the lower field sprinklers flung wide their arms. wetting everything. making a chill. the upper field decidedly warmer. much. and several shooting stars. and the sound of a baby mountain lion coughing. i swear it was. but i couldn't see it. was it whitman wrote that thing about grass pressing into flesh? i can't remember now. i'm sure it's something obvious. the obvious tends to escape me. in any case the grass left its mark on my forehead. on my calves. the side of my face. i found grass on my tongue. chewed clean from the ground. the sweet blanched marrows of grass. and the silhouette of a voyeur. then a downhill walk dictated by sleepiness.
back home i tried to right my hair. impossible. i stood in front of the mirror. then i noticed a glossier black on the black of my cardigan. a large circus beetle** was crawling up my shoulder. i don't fear them. but i was startled and brushed him roughly to the floor. broke one of his legs clean off. i felt bad. i coaxed him into my yellow shoe. like a mariner to a barque. conveyed him to the backdoor. said my good-nights.
and now i'll say g'night to you.
edit: i jumbled the two of these in my mind. whitman
*grammar school saw the attempts at sock hoppery. costumes. anachronisms. an end of the year reward. my skirt never had a poodle. i longed for a poodle to appear there. though i don't actually like poodles.
**i grew up calling them stink bugs. how sophisticated i've become. i stood a bug on his head. and got a beetle.