Jess

I hand him one to admire. 
We are squatted in a patch 
of strawberries, their juicy, 
red heads bobbing on a low breeze. 
He calls it triceratops before gulping 
the berry, stem first, for the way the leaves 
form a familiar spiky crown. Pink juice dribbles 
down his chin and the grin he’s wearing is infectious 
as his last bout of influenza. I try in vain to enlist 
his help with filling the little cardboard quart 
with berries. Me pointing out the ready 
ones and him plucking only toward 
his own mouth. The wind picks up 
and I notice him smelling the air, 
taking in the impending rain. 
He mumbles something 
around a mouthful of fruit, 
then brings his fingers together,
still chewing, and signs, 
more…again.
                        

He calls it Pterodactyl and I don’t correct him,
gripping the flying, dino-shaped magnet and making
whooshing sounds. Dino fly superfast!? This is a

fact but also a question, the last two words
merged into one and rising in pitch at the end—
also in urgency. Superfast, I agree and sip 

on cold coffee. He was awake at 5 a.m. 
spinning stories. Eyeing me from his crib
through the hazy hallway lamplight, his first 
words were foreboding, more creak than whisper.

Animal makes a sound?... Baby cow does! 
Then with a hard and unexpected pivot, Daddy 
still sleeping? Oh, probably cottage cheese! 

Now he is stuck in a middle distance stare 
out the backyard window. I think he must be
imagining something, Pteranodon frozen, mid-flight.

With the drool of budding molars on his bottom lip,
he blinks and sticks the tip of his tongue through
gap teeth, pointing wildly at two grey squirrels,

scurrying, foraging, then nodding his head slowly,
murmurs in a low voice as if to only to himself,
Oh, probably finding nuts, baby stegosaurus.