I linger stretching as they drown the elf
who grins at torture in his Christmas suit.
Their other victims, all dolls, drench the shelf
they’ve made out of a chestnut stump where boots
sucked off by mud lie half-submerged in muck.
Barefoot, soaked, the younger sister stands to roll
baggy pajama bottoms up. She tucks
her shirt and creeps, graceless as a foal
back down beside the creek to fan her hair
inside the ice-shard swirl. My chuckle breaks
the spell—no wave or soft hello can glue
their morning whole again. Both girls glare
before their sprinting feet stamp little lakes.
The cattle fence crackles at beads of dew.
