I took a string,
Tied it to a stake and scribed a circle,
Filled the circle with ditch rocks.
So there it was,
A circle of rocks,
Sucking up heat from the summer sun.
My grandson comes.
He has his wagon.
According to the promptings of his materials,
He carries rocks from one spot to another,
Fits them in here and there.
It takes a half an hour.
Finished he wipes the dirt off his hands,
Comes into the porch where I am reading.
He tells me some rocks were in the wrong place.
“Hmmm,” I say.
“But don’t worry,” he says.
“I fixed them for you.”