Innocent Child Of Perfection

      I see a muddy creek flowing through the driveway. A piece of trash floats by until it gets caught in the chain-link fence. The murky sunlight drifts lazily through a sheet of off-white clouds. The chilly, humid breeze wafts through the mushroom-balnketed limbs of an old aspen, and danced around the dead leaves 'til they released their deathgrip on the rotting tree and joined their kin on the bottom of the yard. I wish the road that blocks the creek from flowing where nature intended was never built. I wish the trash could've gone where it,too, was intended-- the trash can. Only in a perfect world would the clouds be white, but it would be awesome if they were a little less brownish-yellow. When a child draws a picture of their house--perfectly green grass, cottony white clouds, and a square block with a triangular roof--it's really a picture, a tiny snapshot of a perfect world. The innocence of a child before they want an iPod, an XBox360, or even a GameBoy is one of the most
wonderful things about living on this planet. If I could, I would give the sun a smile and a pair of sunglasses, make the grass just a little greener, and give us all those little square houses.