in the hum and burr of twilight,
when our legs begin to itch from the day’s rambles.
Chiggers and tall grass have left their mark,
a tattoo peeled away in the bath.
Suppose it’s open season on childhood,
where we can mutter warnings of anthills and bats that
swoop around the trees with a sound like
a magician’s cape unfurling. When the day burns out
there is nothing left but thirst and hiraeth and we move as one,
like a murmuration,
to the barnlights calling us home.