Fireworks

I hear fireworks which sound a little like lawnmowers, I am confusing my seasons and the months contained in those seasons; is it November or January or May? The two don't really sound all that alike. I am making it up, imagining things.

The sky lights up and the lights sprinkle down and I imagine sprinkling hundreds and thousands onto icing, icing on a cake I've made, a cake that tastes of sweet and sponge and birthdays. We eat the cake and the hundreds and thousands explode in our bellys, like fireworks, like things that sound a little like lawnmowers, but not. These things are connected, because everything is connected, but, yet, they are not connected at all.

I find myself atop a tower, perhaps a water tower, in the middle of the countryside, but close enough to the town to see the explosions welcoming in a new year. I think, explosions are usually bad, apart from the explosions we make for ourselves, for fun, to signify celebrations and new beginnings.

I am in my garden on the first warm day of the year, wearing a skirt with no tights, another first of the year, mowing my lawn. I watch the birds in the sky but I can't hear them above the sound of the lawnmower. My husband is on a chair, reading the paper. It is my birthday.