A hazy autumn sun stretches over the horizon
Teasing burnt sienna across a misty lowland
From the backseat sleepiness breaks our silence
As my baby asks, “Mama what’s floating about the water?”
When I look, mindful of the traffic ahead of me,
Foggy plumes sift through vermillion maple leaves.
Before I respond, her whisper drifts between back to front,
A small revelation about the world surrounding us,
“It’s the Ghost Lands, Mama.”
The Ghost Lands, buoyed above the water, hovering, swaying.
Cerebral Thunder 