Driving across the Flint Hills at dawn
The fog was rising like spirits out of the prairie
hiding the new sun from me and my precious cargo
Look Grandpa, the moon, said Liza, the babe of nearly three
Maxwell, the ten year old raised by philosophers and artists
Carefully explained water droplets suspended in air
And how it was in fact the sun,
That was guiding us on our sacred journey
And was gathering the spirits together to embrace us
We watched as the ocean of fog lapped at the edges of the road
And we saw the cars passing us disappear into the future
We suspended our terror into the grey air like droplets of water
I wonder if forty years later, this tiny moon gazer
Will be in the middle of another race to another future
Through another cloud resting upon the earth
And she will remember all those years ago
Streaming across a barren, frosted prairie
When she learned that things are not always what they seem