little nature girl

half a day past the witching hour

comes another hour of enchantment,

when the stream has rushed miles past its point of origin

and mosquitos are too drunk from the heat to bite,

a little girl makes mud pies on a rock--

moss grazing her knuckles, toes cooled by the steady flow

she is the architect of cairns and fairy forts

her dolls are settled in the rustic structures,

comforted by her laughter and her touch

she ignores the gathering grey overhead,

the way the sand rubs her ankles raw,

and the gnats that seek refuge in the dampness of the corners of her eyes

she will stay until the lightning comes

or when her mother calls "supper's ready"