As I lay face forward, my head is buried in the body of grass, just itching to get up but too tired by the dim lighting of the half moon. My hand seeps into the ground as if a handle to pull me up, but the moon punishes me further and further with its sleepy atmosphere. The crickets chirp a familiar tune and I drift away to sleep as easily as a sailboat with happy drunk men. Some of them singing show tunes, and the other sipping down their rum to the last drop without a care in the world.
April 5, 2010