Summer Children

It’s not enough that oranges hang in the trees. Or that catfish whiskers uncurl in clear rivers.

The hours sag and withdraw like bodies in hammocks. So little time.
They suck from water hoses, the summer children, and skin pears with buck teeth.

Flowers run wild enough to lose their names.

But it’s not enough.

Tobacco dries on yarn tied from pine to pine. The sun is violent hot. Night mad with stars. Green burns from grass and white oaks angle towards the sky to drink until their shadows are full. It’s not enough.

Summer children go looking for trouble. Because trouble to a child is just the tail side of a coin. Indivisible. Differing from its opposite only by result of the turn. Summer says trouble is magic equal to reverence. Law identical to chance. Summer says trouble is neither chaos nor order alone, but both, like wasps in a tin. All the children know is that having the tin is more fun than nothing at all. As long as there is time to play. As long as there is time.

But it’s not enough.

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I am often asked what I do for a living; the simple answer is, I make stuff. I make stuff with my bare hands, with code, with colors, with words. I aid in making the people around me realize their optimum selves. I make my mother proud. I try to make my kids happy and encourage them to contribute more than they consume. I make sure self comes first. I make money. I make my own luck. I make a pretty solid french toast. And I do all that I can everyday to make the world better than it was yesterday.

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