I lower my head and rest my cheek on the hot wood
of the desk. Perhaps I am a swimmer, surfacing
between strokes for a mouthful of air. Or a trail scout,
ear to the ground seeking the prairie's heartbeat
in the distant thunder of hooves. It is June, a wet breeze
sneaking through the classroom windows.
If the teacher is speaking I no longer hear her, as one
dozing on a beach might confuse waves for wind.
The whole summer is stretched out, wide enough
to land a squadron of fighters in formation. Somewhere
far away, a bass breaks the surface of the lake to snap
at a mosquito. And I am both the insect and the fish.