Page 4

I walk past the orchard, taking a ninety-degree turn and heading down the gradual slope to the pasture. I can barely make out my grandma's rose garden in the fog. I can't see Grandpa's greenhouse at all. I look for it, walking backwards for a few paces before turning quickly in the dew-slick grass.
I swing my little arms in wide arcs, attempting to skip in my cumbersome rubber footwear.
I look now to my left, into the orchard. The trees are slender ghosts in the thick morning air. The branches have gone to bud, but I won't smell the sweet aroma of plum and apple blossoms for another month or so. I can't wait to climb their forbidden limbs and take in that heavenly perfume. I would risk a lashing just for that privilege.

I near the old wire fence of the pasture and peer in. Grandpa has recently installed electric wires to daunt the local coyotes... so I am mindful where I place my hand. Kid and Nancy, the farm's goats, come plodding wearily to the opposing side of the fence. They're waiting for Grandpa to come toss some hay into their trough... and immediately show their disinterest in my small presence. I muse wandering between the tractor shed and the coop to my right, to look for avenues mother cats might find to hide fresh kittens... then think better of it. I'm still learning the ways of farm cats... and know only too well the tribulations of weening kittens. Grandma says it's best to let the mothers ween their young, even if it means more thorough taming of feral cats. I turn instead to my left, traversing the wide lane betwixt the pasture and the orchard. This is a steeper grade, and it widens at the bottom. I often lie in the dandelions there, watching the clouds creep by on sunnier, warmer days. I hasten my pace, feeling precipitation heavier than mere mist kissing my cheeks and forehead. The rooster crows again. It is a long, persistent sound.

I begin to trot. The trot invariably breaks into a run, which melts into an easy sprint. I'm exhilarated. The tree fort lies ahead... and I'm eager to experience swinging on my tire in the mist. Stan's not up yet. I have it all to myself. I slip easily into the wide mouth of the tractor tire.

Page 5

The wooden plank my father installed to keep little backsides dry is damp with dew, but what do I care? I'm wearing my invincible suit. A little water is trivial to my current condition. I step back as far as my little legs will let me, and release. I glide through the mist like a plane, an airship, a starship. I slow. I glide backward through time. I am a pterodactyl, gliding through the smoke of a volcano.

I tilt my head back and close my eyes. I love the dizzying sensation of blind flight. I am a bat.
Forward. Slow. Back. Slow.
I am jolted back to reality as the side of the tire connects with the trunk of the tree.
Excited, an idea strikes me. It would be fascinating to see the fog from the fort's vantage point. I learned that phrase from my brother when he was playing war with his friends.

I climb the plank ladder festooned with the bright spray-painted musings of children. I pull myself up onto the platform. I lean against the sturdy rail and look out, over the orchard, back to the farmhouse. I have never seen the sunrise before. I see it now. A bright mass in an impenetrable white cloud. It swirls, and I can see the trees. I hear the warbling melody of a wild bird. A moment later, it is answered, further away. Across the road, maybe. On the Bacon property.

I look in the direction of my best friend's family's house, and the rooster crows again. The world is mine. It is slowly being revealed to me. It unwraps itself from the fog like a present.

I hear my father. He is calling to me from the house. I have a small moment of guilty panic, but answer his call like the bird I heard moments ago. I beckon him come to me, tell him my whereabouts. I want him to see this miracle with me before the rising sun melts it all away. He does not call back, which means he is coming.
I smile into the vanishing mist, bidding him silently to hurry.

(Continued on next page)