Вино из одуванчиков

           Itwasthisthen,themysteryofmanseizingfromthelandandthelandseizingback,yearafteryear,thatdrewDouglas,knowingthetownsneverreallywon,theymerelyexistedincalmperil,fullyaccouteredwithlawnmower,bugsprayandhedgeshears,swimmingsteadilyaslongascivilizationsaidtoswim,buteachhousereadytosinkingreentides,buriedforever,whenthelastmanceasedandhistrowelsandmowersshatteredtocerealflakesofrust.

           Thetown.Thewideness.Thehouses.Theravine.Douglasblinkedbackandforth.Buthowtorelatethetwo,makesenseoftheinterchangewhen...

           Hiseyesmoveddowntotheground.

           Thefirstriteofsummer,thedandelionpicking,thestartingofthewine,wasover.Nowthesecondritewaitedforhimtomakethemotions,buthestoodverystill.

           "Doug...comeon...Doug...!"Therunningboysfaded.

           "I’malive,"saidDouglas."Butwhat’stheuse?They’remorealivethanme.Howcome?Howcome?"Andstandingalone,heknewtheanswer,staringdownathismotionlessfeet...

           Latethatnight,goinghomefromtheshowwithhismotherandfatherandhisbrotherTom,Douglassawthetennisshoesinthebrightstorewindow.Heglancedquicklyaway,buthisankleswereseized,hisfeetsuspended,thenrushed.Theearthspun;theshopawningsslammedtheircanvaswingsoverheadwiththethrustofhisbodyrunning.