Sixty Minutes

I have an hour.  It's a gift, rounding itself unexpectedly into my hand like the apple that comes loose from the tree before I pull.  An hour like a bear, lumbering into and out of the corner of my eye; one warm day in a spate of cold; the sweet slick at the back of your tongue when the fear has passed.

I don't know what to do with my hour, except to try and snatch up handfuls of it as it goes.

-The sun beating against the hood of the car
-My son beating and beating the bottom of a cookie sheet; the shock of pleasure on his face when he hits.
-When he unfists his hands from the steel; stands; lets go

-