A small single-prop airplane, purring like a kitten, sneaks up behind me in the dark.
Tiny pebbles, tossed by knobby tires, land on the brim of my straw hat, rolling and rattling like pool table balls in a track from the pocket to the gathering end.
Other pebbles, tossed into my sandals, gather there until I tilt my foot, flap my heel, and pour them out like gravel out of a dump truck bed.
Like a diligent bartender shining shot glasses, I wipe the gravel dust off the inside of my enamel mug with a bandanna.
Sitting at the picnic table sipping freshly-brewed coffee, remembering the good times like a lonely old man in a rural diner.
Beads of sweat accumulate on the back of my wrists, and sparkle like dew drops on early morning grass.
The back half of the side slit in my MUSA shorts flaps in the breeze like a friendly wave.