Spunk

Poetry

Kid’s got spunk, I thought as Liam, the three year old leaned both hands against American Elm bark, not so slickly vying for my attention, peering over his right shoulder, in between stalking leaves.

He dropped the pretense, and came right up to me, eyeing me like a Maine Coon, except he was more curious.

Evidently, Liam was still getting himself acquainted with this world, something to behold on my part.

If a picture is worth a thousand words, this kid’s face was worth none because no words could do his expression justice.

I did my best, however, to integrate time and his expression, not by camera, but by the power of watercolor paint.

I made him my inspiration, and quickly got to work, scrambling for a paint brush in a split-second affair.

Over yonder, I saw his mother on the sidelines, a blanket strewn across the grass, watching anxiously, for that’s the world we live in, for now.

I should tell you a dog barked at the boy villainously; and the owner admonished, “No, you don’t bark at babies!”

Some dogs don’t know you don’t bark at babies. And some babies don’t know how to stand still when you’ve decided to make them your inspiration.

The call for Capri Sun too loud, Liam cruised away so as to retrieve a juice pouch from his mother and set out again, uncontrollably babbling and motioning to share his juice. “No, Liam, he doesn't want that,” his mother called.

It was too late, Liam and I had already made friends.

Then I handed Liam’s mother the painting, her paint son sipping his paint pouch, chubby cheeks impersonating Elmer Fudd, the wonder effectively cemented a little while longer.

It is good to know that life goes on.

Thank you for reading! © Daniel Barry, 2021

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