It is hard to hear
the ice cream truck coming around the corner
when something bad happens
in a small town.

You can hold your breath until it feels right again;
you can watch the cars slowly passing—
each one so suspect,
that it makes more sense to lock the doors and stay inside.

But then the errands,
they pile up,
and the recycling needs to be taken to the city bins—
the ones at the east end of town close to the baseball fields.

Where beyond,
the sky is pink like strawberry and milk
over the churning prairie
and you can hear the sounds of a solid right-field hit
while the lights over the diamond turn on
and quiet, distant lightning informs the tinted sky.

How you love those players then.

Then, on your drive back through town
after your cans have joined the others with a clang
and cardboard is compressed,

there are teenagers parked and smoking by the 7-11;
they toss their heads back with laughter and derision,
the smell of their smoke wafting down Main
and disappearing when you pass the lake.

How you love those teenagers then.

Fishermen close their tackle boxes for the night
and pelicans balance indelicately on buoyant logs;
a snapping turtle lifts its head with a remitting ripple
and a couple walks arm in arm around the path by water’s edge.

How you love all of it then.

And then you can hear it– coming around the corner where the pinkish sky has followed you home
and where lightning comes with noise now.

It is the ice cream truck,
crooning through the streets and county roads
where everyone waves and smiles

just in time.