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By Dean Van Doleweerd Behind the belt sitting still atop baking blacktop are three lanes of impatience. The radio crackles news of canine involvement -- the suspicion of children not found; beyond the thrown bodies tangled in the roadside rhubarb: parents. Another summer shimmering above the hood of my hunching four cylinders. Under the same sun blonde hair slick with Georgian Bay squeals at the feats of fourteen year old freckles -- all safely in-bounds -- until the tangle of red fails to rise to the expectant gaze of freedom. Their holiday has brought them a haunting; a Castle Rock upon which they helped to haul their hero. Still idling in August cars converging guardedly without rules, a hand raised or a finger in frustration. Another September roll altered -- an empty gut clench -- a Richard Cory moment thrown before a subway train rushing everyone else. The garden grows to new expectations in this month of heat. My eyes open with the energy of adolescence, iris exposed. The sting of exhaust slaps me and I turn off at the ramp. On a gravel road I stop in a cloud and stray into a field of late summer colour rustling against the grasses grown tall along the fence. Hidden there, the sun slides beyond the day and I breathe the mounting quiet. |
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Document last modified on: 11/05/2004