Fresh asphalt and gravel pop and spit from the wide, swaying weight of the van.
Pop-rock fizz — teeming joy, like shaken strawberry soda in a thick, glass vessel,
waiting to shower the sky, tickling the way a ladybug tickles your hand as she dances.
Scrambling to hold tightly to the majestic, crisp, powdery paved entrance,
heaviness loses momentum and sits in awe at the grandeur.
And the gate opens.
Gliding clumsily across the winding snow – POPPING spanks that wide underbelly while
welcoming arms stretch and scratch with brittle nails.
Relishing in the moment, my arrival is announced
in a long, piercing squawk like trumpeters playing a glorious fanfare, echoing against the clouds.
Bursting caps, laughter arrives.
Warm, wet air blankets my brow and sweet, feathery blades of shorn acres combined
with blooming florae and damp clumps of mud and sweat fill my senses.
Ornery walls of ivy disagree with one another and travel into neighboring patches to gossip,
only to stop at the royal thickets swarming with armed warriors, keeping watchful eye over the roses.
The red wooden swings drift in happiness watching over their majestic kingdom, facing squarely,
focused on the old, gray wizard — his long arms stretched out, hovering over sacred ground.
And all is right
beyond the caliche roads at the ranch.