it seems steady, stuck there, head rushing to the horizon, the tail flaring up and to the left.

"kids," you want to say, "kids, come check this out."

and the kids would come running out to the grass that was mowed yesterday while they were at school.

they saw the news report. they heard the anchor mention it would be better, easier, to see the comet with two toilet paper rolls pressed against the orbits of their eyes.

the house doesn't keep or collect toilet paper rolls. the girls began rapidly drinking water by the mason jar full.

the mason jars you found when you were just a few years older than they are now. the mason jars found out behind your great grandmother's house, the house that was abandon for years, except for that stint one halloween as a haunted house.

the cows wandered in and out of the living room.

and the mason jars were out back behind where the porch that came away from the kitchen was.

and now the girls drink, rapidly, quickly, and run, giggling, to the bathroom. you won't let them waste the paper, and they, taking after their mother, are smart asses and yell "call of nature!" as they slam the bathroom door shut.

they stand in front of you as the night darkens, rolls pressed into their face, looking at this comet.

you stand behind them, their heads barely at your hips.

they have the curly hair of their mother. the eldest has her wide back and the youngest, who secretly adores her sister but would never admit it, has the lines of a swimmer.

before you can look from the comet back to them, they have dropped the empty rolls at your feet and are running, rolling, diving away from each other, laughing, and the night has descended. you see flashes of her shirt behind a tree, her jelly shoes beneath a bush.

they will have to bathe tonight.