Somewhere in a gray morning, a long sentence crawls from a long throat.

What do you want to say? The sentence knows, but the throat does not.

Intention is the instinct before the thought. Intention is the root that spreads below.

Outside, a man parks his rusted baby-blue truck. It looks moments away from a junkyard smashing.

The passenger seat wears a pink shirt. The headrest is peach-colored, like a crayon.

A sentence is made up of sounds. Can I hum? These sounds are not yet words.

One must pluck the plant to know the map of the root, its weavings.

The sentence wants to speak to the woman who would be there. The man jumps out and runs.

The throat notices the bald spot in his shaved head. The throat notes his black jacket, his USA flag patch.

A woman is a human too.

The plant this time is lamb’s ear in the garden, the softest leaf, the feel of her upper lip.

The sentence crawls from the throat; a long sentence crawls from a long throat.

Where is the woman now?

Intention is the instinct before the thought.

He runs, yanks off his jacket, and runs farther. Past the tire store he goes, past sight.

The throat wants to find the woman who would be there. The sentence knows it can’t.