Oh how I miss the endless summer days
not giving a damn what "cultivated" people thought.

Strange looks shot from passing cars.

Climbing and perching in trees like strange featherless birds
before hurling our bodies into frigid waters.

Come up for breath, green hangs off our heads.

Sprawling out on bare earth and basking in the sun
to drive the cold from our bones.

A thin layer of dirt covers our clothes.

Pointing out shoals of rainbow fish swimming by,
feet creating shallow dips in bleach white sand.

Waves crash against our rolled up pant legs.

Collecting armfuls of branches, big and small,
throwing them down in piles waiting to be burned.

The smell of smoke permeates our skin.

Laying head to head watching stars flicker into existence,
playing "I Spy" with satellites out in the vacuum of space.

Grass stains, not prejudiced against skin nor cloth.

Racing in and out of the puddles of light cast by street lamps,
tracings the ridges of the tiny metal keys in our pockets.

Finally the sweet comfort of a clean bed.