Not sure - we lay in the long
grasses looking at a sky
so big I said it was Montana.

Each time a car appeared
in the distance, kicking up dirt,
we dug deeper into the low sandy
hillside, on the lookout
for his dad's blue Plymouth
coming back from the faire,
and when the dust settled
on bare arms and legs,
hands stamped,
I said the road must be Nebraska.

At times, the sound of seagulls
reached our ears, and
when my lips touched his skin,
I tasted salt.
The clouds were so wonderful,
I whispered, it could be Texas.

Later, among the crickets
and the holly,
we watched the summer
lighning paint the sky.