Scout Finch Still Dreams About Boo Radley In the notch of the live oak tree I left two clementines, a rusted bottle cap with a green star and a toy donkey with tall ears poking through an old straw hat. I wonder, did you ever get all that, Boo? It was wrapped in a worn man’s handkerchief like a fledgling heart tucked within restless boughs, traded for two shining pennies and our lives once long ago in the purple blackbird evening. Now, whenever the hunching black dog prowls these streets I run home to you again. I am scratched, skin-kneed peering over to your yard, checking to see if you’re there behind pale whispers of leaves. For Lethe-eyed drunks still proselytize in the pool halls of Old Sarum; our small town cleans house now and then, but evil is a reliable tenant who always settles back in and I can picture you now keeping watch under that tree. You look up at the lazy clouds of Maycomb scraping over our old house, pale ghosts slipping past my bedroom window; silent clouds drifting over Alabama. You watch me, the clouds, just slip- slipping away under the beautiful unjust moon.