R e d d i t

I go to the farm the next day, five people crammed into a zipcar. The driver talks to the couple in back about developing applications for Twitter. Dim coral reefs, hills full of trees. A grey Porsche flaunts its way past us up the curling parkway. The leaves are traffic cone orange, persimmon, damp yellow. Soft fingers, mottled loofahs under an overcast sky. I Had A Little Compost Pile When I Was Living At Cape Cod, muses our driver. Iíve been getting fresh vegetables from†this hilly patch of land†all summer. The farmhouse is buffeted by early afternoon gales. I wander down into the woods and push my way through neck-high weeds onto a shimmering green hillside. Gwen sits on a log by a small gully and we both stare into the sun that sits bright and plump upon the trees. Mischievous boys drop logs heavily into the bonfire. We drink scotch out of wine glasses. Sparks climb into the black sky. A gathering of subdued affluence circles to keep out the cold. I have enough money to live on for a couple months. I have fumbled the ball many times. My fears continue to attack me from within. I ask for the strength to grow old and be happy.

B a l o n e y . . .