the task that awaits

shit buckets! ted calls out on the field referring to both:
the task that awaits him after the game and
a missed toss

the cool cool blessing of pond
washing over shoulders,
over cheekbones, over elbows
almost too cold at first
but not long after, perfect
for paddling and kicking and flotaing under
a cloud-swathed sky

the sound that shoulders and shirts and
heels of palms make
against the dark hard wood
white gravel dust gathered on the backs of our skirts
from the sunset spot
where the half-live oak grows
tonight, it is a pink orb swathed in gray/purple
a survivor’s reunion she says
as we slice the perfect (in flavor) and marred (in rotting-ness) peaches
that we gathered a few nights ago
up on the neighbor’s hill
the black walnut that throws me (in clogs)
off onto my palms
on the side of the path

a lion
in the enclosure
draping over the edge
arm dangling

a flying scrap of paper
written with initials and symbols
fluttering down from the treehouse
once unfolded revealing lines about hammocks and holding and home