Southern Summer

Southern summer. Running like feral children in the woods, along the creek banks, tossing rocks to scare off snakes before jumping into muddy water.

We were pirates, we were shipwreck survivors, we were brave explorers of new lands.

We sat on concrete porch steps, beefsteak tomatoes as big as softballs, still sun hot from back yard gardens were our lunch. A shaker of salt, juice running down tanned arms. Water from the end of the garden hose and back into the wild.

Wild children of the forest, the creek, the marsh, the river until dusk fell and the mosquitoes swarmed.

We lounged beneath street lamps, watching moths and bats battle for life until one by one our mothers' voices could be heard, echoing down the suburban streets.

Calling us home to supper.