1944
Beebe Barksdale-Bruner The power was off. I remember someone saying too cold to snow. White sifted from a bruised sky as Doug and I flew into freezing air ill–protected by short sleeves. Hit midsection by an ice missile I dropped to the ground, hard. He laughed and ran the other way. One summer he started up the old Ford; Someone had left the keys. Bored at five he led a neighbor‘s cow home. Doug and I related in mood but for intensity, me playing fool for the king, both of us acting out our misery. Years later I planted my feet in summer and he loaded a gun.
BARKSDALE-BRUNER ∫ 81