We drive north

in cars piled high with books, running shoes,

and other good intentions.

 

We unfurl ourselves from the tin can

wearing bare legs and sunblock

and dive into cool waters,

cracking open the surface,

splattering sunlight across each other’s faces.

 

We don’t wear shoes.

The babies haven’t yet been conceived.

We are each other’s celestial orbs and we swarm

and long after it’s dark, we refuse to furl ourselves

back inside our cocoons.

 

In the morning, someone makes coffee for everyone,

and later, we somehow seamlessly transition to

cold beers in sweating cans

and the campfire in our hair

will last for years.