Literary Mama writing about the many faces of motherhood
Why We Tell Them the Truth

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Cicadas loud as lawn mowers crop the night.
Eyes wide, my girl asks, What is that sound?
She will swallow any story I feed her. I could say,

with his sharp teeth, a flying shark saws the sky,
it's a string of lightning, sizzling and alone,
looking for a little electricity.
       It's God's radio all static-y.

Because this world is wondersome enough,
I tell her, bugs that rattle, I say cicadas,
and imagine what monster she conjures:
part maraca,
part shaking snake,
thunder shedding skin.

Dayna Patterson thinks third graders are wonderful, old enough to be independent, young enough not to have hit puberty’s wall. It is a sweet, sweet spot she’ll be sorry to relinquish as her daughters grow.

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Oh Dayna. I wish I had your brain. I love how your thoughts create such magical formations of words!
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