White Ford Bronco, by James Blevins

We ran to our fort in the woods that was little more than a rut in the ground. Our imaginations made it something more, though, and it suited us fine.

My baby brother in the pine needles. He spoke to me, but I hadn’t heard, distracted by birds.

“What was that?” I asked.

“I hope he never comes back.”

I imagined I could hear a bird expanding its ribcage in song. I took my brother’s hand while he wept.

We ran home.

Dad’s truck wasn’t in the driveway.

Thankful, we ran some more. Our chests extended, vibrating, in perfect harmony.


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