Picnic

The sun shines sparingly. Three horses move snow with their noses and eat grass while my father and his cousin rebuild a barn with wood my father took off another barn he tore down with his brother. My brother, sister and I run around chasing our tails like monkeys five million years ago. It is cold as a death song on Sunday. My mother brings us egg salad sandwiches. We sit on a fence and eat.

Is it almost time to go home? I ask. I want to watch the Packer game.