In the thick, gleaming light
Of evening, we have gathered.
This grassy bowl will contain
Our revels. It is not wilderness, but
It presents the illusion, convincing
Those who do not wish to penetrate it.
The sun is afraid of the dark. He grabs
The sky desperately to slow the rush
Of his descent. His fingers stain the sky
And fields with smears of gold.
The others come together.
The group of them washes back and forth
Across the grass just below where I, still
Separate, watch. They move like water droplets
That break away and then race to reform, ragged
Uneven edges flowing all over. Their tide tugs, a
Siren call beckoning, until I too slide in, losing myself
In their sea, the ebbing and flowing of laughter.
Our frisbee is like a piece of the noon sky, taunting
The sun as it flies. But the sun cannot hold on forever.
He loses his fingernail’s grip, and falls despairingly
Behind the trees. They are like a galaxy now, fainter
White lights like stars shine through. This light doesn’t faze
The waiting shadows. The airy golden bars of their prison
Have dissolved, and they are free. They overrun
Our field, and impatient for their turn they push us out.
We splatter over the edge of the field, the liquid “us”
Becoming drops of “I’s” and “you’s”.
We chase the twilight through the streets
Running as joyously as it runs, until we beat it home.