Our accomplished ancestors, how well we recognise them, in tiny brown photographs, or further back, just a baptism entry. They stare into the sun-dazed real with more recondite knowledge than we can imagine. Grass is lines like rain spilling from the earth. Lying back, we think of everyone not a direct ancestor. Adults in our childhood, their way of laughing at inexplicable sentences. Really, it’s a wonder, how they look at us from childhood, comforting somehow. Rain finer than [grass] stems falls night and day, on occasion. After it’s cleared they go off somewhere, with their plans for somewhere fun.
