A Morning, A Moment
Liko has found a pair of long Johns, and is carefully patting a small brass cup, top and bottom, to listen to the set or ringing noises it makes on the table. A tiny metal teapot next to her is half-filled with milk. The cool liquid inside makes a dewey shadow on the outside, and Liko refills her small cups. Two toy cats are discarded on the floor, their chins suspiciously milk-drippy. Liko's two blond French braid's are fraying. Earlier this morning, after we dropped the big kids off on the long morning trek from North Eugene to South Eugene, through clogged arterial highways and wide fog swept river roads, backdropped with gradations of mist-fading pines, Liko sat on my tummy as I lay on the couch, and her blond hairs flew around her like a wild halo, her bangs in her eyes. We watched two squirrels in the back yard. One weighed down a drooping sunflower, and it bounced near the ground while the squirrel worked. Then pop! The sunflower head was off! The other squirrel step