The Children Who Sound Like a Herd of Elephants

The stampede, the attack on the weekend peace, fragile mind that becomes me of late. It's more than two kids, four little arms, four little legs, surely. Kids need to roam. Naturally. Above me. Over me. Through my head. Like a drill in my temple as a wake up call. Like Rubik last week in his tiny bowl the kids are caged. They are trapped in small walls, when they should be in the space and beauty of the outdoors. Instead the herd continues to move. Back and forth. All day long. Over the floorboards above my weekend life (the week days are as quiet as the smog bombs are unexpected). Poor head, that's right, tip the words out. At least roll around in some delight. The elephants are coming. Pretty soon it will all be over.