Little cars: yellow, black, red, and blue. Gripped in little hands. Driving in small circles on the cognac leather. Hazel eyes bright in the morning light, looking out into the yard, across the street and towards the sounds all around. Small statements of gibberish echo off the wooden floors and plastic toys. The breeze from the window carries the sound.
Sand and brown and bleach blonde twisted and turned, directionless; flowing over shoulders, swirling like a torrent of molding liquid. Pitter-patter and tiny toes. Saturday, running around tables. Crawling away. These are the games we play.
© Dallas J. Moore 2015