A Slap and a Lullaby

Night crawled in, and my felt legs were dragging like two wet rags. Up ahead near the ditch, an old wooden apple crate was tipped upside down, looking like prime bum real estate. Just as I climbed onto the splintery slat to crash, an empty tin sardine can snagged on my heel. I yelled, spun around, and smacked that smelly tin clean into the weeds with the flat back of my banjo—KERR-RATTLE! The racket cut straight through the crickets. Staring out into the pitch-black weeds, I felt pretty ridiculous picking a brawl with fish garbage. I slumped my back against the weathered slat, rested the drum on my skinny green knees, and picked out a quiet, sleepy waltz to lull the startled night bugs back to sleep.

1 Nauk