Societies Greeting

“What's that Max?”

The seven year old speaks, curious gaze and a petite, stubby figure directing upwards, I sit down in suspicion, turn to face an aggravated cloud, it's edges curled- overlapping white, it's bottom black and faceless with delight. I smile at the cloud, wind breaking my face, and remember my history of which this took place. I turn to the girl -different but very similar- and offer a smile but not a word quivered. The girl smiled bright, nodding nervously- before assaulting the high horse weeds and laughed determinedly.

Wind hustled with vigilance, sweeping across the open field, tearing underneath the melancholy nebulosity and wind crisp, thigh-high weeds. I watch a young girl, One identical to me, dazzle like a dancing sunflower under the darkest seas. The damp, cimmerian cover above her, roaring a ferocious scream, as her petite figure kindles light with the small rings of bellous laughter over shameful streams. She waltzes clumsily through the dark, golden, bitter dry field, bruises and nicks bled across the soles of bare feet, cuts bit around her grimy ankles and knees. She didn't care if the dull yellow dress tore at its seams, if the threads snapped and strangled clumps of fabric damped with mud- the young girl continued to dance curiously, towards the sodden storm, and forbid the weeds that pushed and pulled, and ran from troubles won.