You are not old here.
You will be old nowhere.
But for now,
captured in sunlight and smiles,
you are happy, lively even.
Sprawled out, suspended
by a sun-faded blood orange
canvas chair tied precariously
to an unknown breed of tree. Your
pale blonde shaggy hair splays wildly;
controlled only by a purple bandana
tied around your forehead.
The thing that always catches me is
the sincerity and warmth that
radiates from your crooked smile.
Sunlight and shadows reflect,
distorted off of reflective aviators.
Bright sun shines off of alfalfa in
the background. A twisted bicycle,
spray-painted neon green hides
half in the brush.
You were not old here.
You were never old.
But you were alive.