Clay

When we played all those blue games near the highway, Mom didn’t stop us at first, though cars flowed like the creek

behind our house. When we knocked over her favorite pot of daisies on our rush after a runaway soccer ball, then Mom dashed,

overtook us. Cars stopped, had to claw their way through a snagging siren. Maybe this moment was the moment,

friends suggest years later, that I got my guardian angel. Maybe.

The stream still has to use its teeth to get by.

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