a boy.
Maybe nine, maybe not.
His fingers clenching dirt;
toes in the grass.
He was humming a hymn,
the southern air in his lungs.
They saw him in you, the day of the rains.
My first friend.
We were stranded in the hillside,
all of our paints were ruined by the pours.
Remember, we fished off the bridge?
We sat there dripping, back to back,
in that colossal hiatus.