The clothesline is empty.  So is the blooming clover that fills the yard. Yesterday’s bumblebees have not yet reoccupied their spiky white posts. The stillness of the early hour broken only by our flip flops clicking an unintended chorus.  Their perfect rhythm times a whiney creak.  The lonely song of the handle of a pail.  Swinging back and forth, wrapped around my arm on my elbow like a purse. For a moment it quiets.  Paused at the putting hole, pocketing a forgotten golf ball, I  look back towards the house. Our steps have left an interesting trail in the cool dew. Grandma calls my name. Ahead of me she’s stopped, waiting for me to catch up.

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