You are three, five, and seven, chasing a puppy across a field where goats envy your ability to twist, turn, jump, run, and climb. Mudsplashing puddles in a quick country rain convince you life is all out spontaneously happy. You twirl to the music of a street dance. You are seven, nine, eleven. Your heads bent together over an old card table where a sleeping black cat reaches for the poker chips. You toss back your sarsaparilla and eye each other above the cards like Lou and Kid and Wild Bill. Poetry follows you from first words through the last long distance telephone conversation. You are light pausing awhile to shape itself into sisters reading thoughts across the miles.
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