a sleepy fishing town
with a homelessness problem
home to many shiny summertime mansion
and the occasional shark.
There’s giant golf course
a crisp, artificial green
like the money that maintains it.
As the sun sets, they leave
harumphing about the game being cut short
scurrying away with their personalized clubs
and pastel polo shirts.
Then we reclaim it.
First the bats swoop in
as orange flames lick the sky
dive-bombing the dusk mosquitoes.
Then a deer,
cautiously darts around the dark, forested edge
wide eyes and a small, spotted tail.
Next, the bullfrogs bellow their arrival
echoing across the pond and the sandtraps.
Finally, I sprint through
my brother and sister close behind
as we race barefoot
to the top of the hill
Where we sit under the old tree
with infinite, spiraling branches
and tell ghost stories
until the moon has illuminated the cattails
around the artificial pond.