half a day past the witching hour
comes another hour of enchantment,
when the stream has rushed miles past its point of origin
and mosquitos are too drunk from the heat to bite,
a little girl makes mud pies on a rock--
moss grazing her knuckles, toes cooled by the steady flow
she is the architect of cairns and fairy forts
her dolls are settled in the rustic structures,
comforted by her laughter and her touch
she ignores the gathering grey overhead,
the way the sand rubs her ankles raw,
and the gnats that seek refuge in the dampness of the corners of her eyes
she will stay until the lightning comes
or when her mother calls "supper's ready"
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