Two burgers on the grill
and summer seems so close.
The smell of grilling connects the neighborhood.
I have a beer in my hand,
as I draw my head back to take a pull,
and there in the sky
(standing out like a sentinel)
is a mylar balloon;
it is drifting south
and due to pass overhead
in a minute or so.
It is at least a mile away
and closing fast,
moving south more quickly
than it seems to gain in elevation.
I watch, transfixed, and wonder where the crying child is
and how to tell them of the glory within their loss.
The burgers are done.

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