The house I grew up in vibrates

as skeletons of tumbleweeds ride

waves of sunshine skimming

edges of my past.

Hundreds of keys float

tangled in dust-fused air,

their rust-soaked teeth searching

for some place to land.

At the end of the driveway,

I stand as if in rapture

as ghosts stain and sting

the brilliant blue sky.

My mother warns of rattlesnakes

down by the Arkansas River.

My father rewraps wires

around a corner fence post.

My horse snorts impatiently

as if urging me to ride.

My dogs watch silently, suspicious

that this is the moment I say goodbye.

A crack appears in the sky

as if lightning or gunshot

burning and turning the past

into movement on the ground.

Cats walk languidly up the sidewalk.

Cats sunbathe like celebrities on the porch.

Cats lounge like gamblers in the grass.

One cat begins to stalk me.

Mother hated cats.

Father said come home again.

I was listening.