I squint as I stare
at the horizon,
where the sun hits and stings
before it falls
and forever disappears,
as it does most nights.

On a similar November day,
distant pines once whistled,
and winds withered
before Father's earthy coat,
wrapped about small shoulders.
my mother's voice felt to him
strong, tired, and sweet.
I can feel it, I think,
in whispers drifting through
the now-gone tree,
filled with browning apples.
my friend the neighbor
and his year-younger sister,
both upset
about an
impending ending,
had come to dig
in unrelenting mud
and form forts from bare branches.
when we were done,
we stood tall toward
jagged, endless mountains.
I wanted to swallow the distant peaks
and fill my empty self with the scene.
it just left me longing.
and when we hit thirteen,
not long before,
I tossed myself away,
we snuck cheap liquor
behind my favorite rotting shed,
to shake our teeth
and swell our tongues.
I sucked down some
and said,
in a voice cracked and jovially rough,
that I'd probably be dead
before we hit the harder stuff,
and grinned
at their warming reply,
filtered by freezing wind.
my eyes were once
adjusted to this.