All things glorious, our mid-summer groove
in clenched fists, looped rope
trailing behind, sauntering colts
updrift from hoofs, dust
caught in dancing cilia of tiny nostrils, dirt
a dash into a reprieve from the mid-afternoon sun and not short on words, camp girls in search of a mid-summer quench.
in smooth birch bowls on sooty surfaces, ruby plums
on sticky chins, stone fruit juice
underneath curled nails, a fusion of dirt and sweet pulp