Inventory of an August
Four beds along the screened‑in wall,
four of us asleep before dawn.
Beyond the windows, the lake lay still,
silver in the morning light.
We woke and ran down to the dock,
the boards already warm.
We raised the Sunfish’s white sail
and headed out from shore.
We sailed until the afternoon
had faded into gold,
then came back hungry, sunburned,
laughing as we ran.
At dusk, we took the gravel road
that wound beside the lake
to the little church with the belfry
where the bats began to stir.
We stood beneath them, watching
until one by one they flew,
then ran back down toward the water
with the evening settling blue.
The waves came softly to the stones.
We heard them in the dark.
We chased the fireflies through the grass
and caught them in our hands.
Four little lights against our palms.
We held them for a second,
then opened up our fingers
and watched them disappear.
Later, we climbed the stairs
and slipped beneath the sheets.
Four beds along the screened‑in wall.
Four of us.