The four-wheel drive Geo Tracker bounds off the road.
Inside of the house, sleeping residents dream
of each other, back-floating in pools of gentler hues;
while outside, rooster tails of topsoil—O & A horizons—
corrupt the atmosphere like a flailing Kraken, besmirching
the geraniums & marigolds, charring the power-washed vinyl siding.
And as if in triumph over a legion of lawn ornaments—old ladies bending
over and away—my brother raises his fist and shouts,
“I am Brummett! Ha, Ha!”
Head bowed and not daring
to peek, his mother’s hands clasp
—gently, but as firm as our land & sky cling to each other at night—
as if the prayer contained within them
was a bird; once freed,
it might never return.