Bones

I drove past a pile of bones yesterday.

Sitting in the hot sun,

melting slowly into the pavement as my car sped by.

I didn’t have time for old bones on the side of the road.

When I was a child, 

I remember finding the perfect,

unblemished skull of a squirrel,

buried in the muck

just beyond the old,

mossy

stone wall I liked to leap over,

under the towering maple tree.

And the fog rolled in,

and everything dripped with water,

and the skull felt like all the weight of the world there in my hands,

and after a while I put it back,

buried it all over again.

I wonder what those little hands knew that I don’t.

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