Red juice from liquified popsicles covers their faces, wooden sticks still in sticky hands to make makeshift houses later. In a month, there will be desks and papers and leaves, a sign of goldengrove unleaving. But for now, nectar thoughts. It is a day of birth again, for the country. The falling stars and eagles push through the thick blue sky, condensed with sweat and July air. Airplanes dip and soar; if flight fails them...
One plane spirals into the field, with all the neighbors watching, unmoving . No wingbeats to lessen the fall, a horrid crash and boom I feel in my chest following. The chrome bird blazes coolly in the now-frigid air. Feeling the time of hurt replace happiness, all I can do is stare. An acrid smoke pours from the broken bird like water, and ancient incense in the country. As the wreckage disintegrates and the sirens dull, we retreat to our separate homes. Am I the only one who feels as though we need each other? Firefighters around the flames and families around the television, while I, in darkness dwelt; a day of union spent in solitude.