We rushed in, mahogany toes, ankles
and calves first into the shallow streams
of bright water to sit on the bank of the ditch.
The grass bowed pale yellow green
the flow of water against our peach soles.
The current ripples into our giggles, our laughs
light and carefree echoing down the street like the
heavy rain packing up to leave. Bumble bees hold on
to the honeysuckle leaves and the peak of the evening
brings out the smell of a wet sweetness full of Cat bird songs.
Rocks and bent sticks pressed beneath the ditch’s murky veil,
mud swirling soft around our ankles,
fingers trailing the tug of the water’s pull.
When the older boys streaked past on their bikes,
cutting through our current like blades,
we scattered, squealing, into leaning grass,
their laughter chasing ours.
If the day were ours alone,
no mothers calling from porches,
no shadow of missing fathers,
we’d crown the ditch a kingdom,
float in its murky grace
as cars whisked past, unaware.
Before the chill crept in,
before goosebumps rose like prayers,
we’d dodge the wind and the warnings,
red mud in our heels, lightning bugs flickering
like secrets in the dark
before we caught cold.
We were born to bury our secrets
beneath shallow dirty water
and hearty laughter.
Brianna Yancey is a resident of Greensboro, NC. She currently teaches at North Carolina Agricultural and Technical State University.
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