Write a Novel in November, Post #10

They are just words: the field, the shovel, the hole, the blouse, the glue holding the buttons, the buttons. A stick of yellow. A coming together, a reunion, a departure from, an isolation.  The buttons, the buttons. Mountains. Water. The river. The can. The Mountain Dew. The stethoscope, the optic nerves, the nervous hands, the twitching, the dirt, the planet. Be just. But justice was in the straw. He was sweating through his shirt from his shin down the shovel the snow was melting and she was digging stuffing the snow in her blouse and the sun thawed out the sun thawed her out the rhythm she was dancing his arms were up her palms facing him the dirt and the dirt and the buttons she was hot and the heat fell through his shirt she was holding him up check the heartbeat and back and the buttons and everything yellow and the river sang softly and everything was painful and white bleached from the sun around her neck the shape the shape was a word on a field. Pick it up. Plant it.