My daughter and I take a walk down the dirt road. Someone dumped his junk in the sumac: a brown couch, dull tv. I tell her a family of trolls spent the night here. I tell her stories she’s too young to understand, but my voice woos her and she coos. On walks alone I never felt this way — I’d curse the bastards who trash the fields. But now, we name the weeds as we go: chinese lantern, cornflower, queen-anne’s-lace. The cows low as we pass, my daughter smiles. Grackles flash from the grass, a torrent of wings rising. They are angels I tell her, each a thought, a whisper. At the end of our road the dirt meets asphalt. Today it’s a silver ribbon in the sun; it leads somewhere, I tell her, beyond the hills, a city full of laughter.