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Dandelion wine
It
was
a
quiet
morning
,
the
town
covered
over
with
darkness
and
at
ease
in
bed
.
Summer
gathered
in
the
weather
,
the
wind
had
the
proper
touch
,
the
breathing
of
the
world
was
long
and
warm
and
slow
.
You
had
only
to
rise
,
lean
from
your
window
,
and
know
that
this
indeed
was
the
first
real
time
of
freedom
and
living
,
this
was
the
first
morning
of
summer
.
Douglas
Spaulding
,
twelve
,
freshly
wakened
,
let
summer
idle
him
on
its
early
-
morning
stream
.
Lying
in
his
third
-
story
cupola
bedroom
,
he
felt
the
tall
power
it
gave
him
,
riding
high
in
the
June
wind
,
the
grandest
tower
in
town
.
At
night
,
when
the
trees
washed
together
,
he
flashed
his
gaze
like
a
beacon
from
this
lighthouse
in
all
directions
over
swarming
seas
of
elm
and
oak
and
maple
.
Now
.
.
.
"
Boy
,
"
whispered
Douglas
.
A
whole
summer
ahead
to
cross
off
the
calendar
,
day
by
day
.
Like
the
goddess
Siva
in
the
travel
books
,
he
saw
his
hands
jump
everywhere
,
pluck
sour
apples
,
peaches
,
and
midnight
plums
.
He
would
be
clothed
in
trees
and
bushes
and
rivers
.
He
would
freeze
,
gladly
,
in
the
hoarfrosted
icehouse
door
.
He
would
bake
,
happily
,
with
ten
thousand
chickens
,
in
Grandma
’
s
kitchen
.
But
now
—
a
familiar
task
awaited
him
.
One
night
each
week
he
was
allowed
to
leave
his
father
,
his
mother
,
and
his
younger
brother
Tom
asleep
in
their
small
house
next
door
and
run
here
,
up
the
dark
spiral
stairs
to
his
grandparents
’
cupola
,
and
in
this
sorcerer
’
s
tower
sleep
with
thunders
and
visions
,
to
wake
before
the
crystal
jingle
of
milk
bottles
and
perform
his
ritual
magic
.
He
stood
at
the
open
window
in
the
dark
,
took
a
deep
breath
and
exhaled
.
The
street
lights
,
like
candles
on
a
black
cake
,
went
out
.
He
exhaled
again
and
again
and
the
stars
began
to
vanish
.
Douglas
smiled
.
He
pointed
a
finger
.
There
,
and
there
.
Now
over
here
,
and
here
.
.
.
