shadow

Childhood Summers

Blackberries haven't been so plump nor spent maroon so lavishly in buckets heated by the sun since days our guilty arms, stung and scratched, were reaching for the prize festooned against unjudging skies. The lake below the slanted field, languid, looked the other way. And Tylers' barn, five stories tall, spoke not a word except its loft belched swallows from the inner dust. O, what delight they took in broadcasting our lust!

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