Krista Luttrell

Thirty seconds it was-
or maybe a minute-
on a pleasant Saturday noon,
the blaring horn sliced
through the pine tree air
where we kids once swung
higher, higher, and higher
as if our feet could touch
the bright blue sky
beyond the needle green.
My father sat and sipped
his steaming Nescafé,
immersed in pages of fading news,
as that clockwork blare
cut through our dog day,
and snow days,
and mud-filled days-
a relic it was, of vigilance
we children couldn’t grasp.
The specter of the Cold War
hovered
like an odd shadow
over our sun-filled summer play.

♥︎ Krista

© 2025 Krista Luttrell